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Poems and Plays. 



DONN PIATT, 



Author of " Memories of the Men who Saved the Union," "The Lone Crave 

of the Shenandoah, and Other Tales," "The Rev. Melancthon 

Poundcx," Sunday Meditations," etc. 



CINCINNATI: 

Robert Clarke & Co., Publishers 

1893. 



hn 



Copyright, 1893, 
By ELLA KIRBY PIATT. 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS— 

The Bloom was on the Alder and the Tassel 

on the Corn, ..... 

Mac-o-Chee. — I, 
We Parted at the Omnibus, 
A Saint, .... 
Lake George, 
By the Golden Gate, 
The Candidate, 
The Dinner Horn, 
Obituary.— F. K., 

To , .... 

The Laborer's Hymn, 

The Ohio Boat-Horn, 

The Blue Jay, 

Garfield Dead, 

An Adieu, .... 

A. C. F 

Song, ..... 

From an Album, 

I Send You Your Letters, 

(v) 



24 
26 
29 
30 
3 2 
34 
36 
39 
44 
48 

5i 

53 
55 



vi Contents. 

POEMS.— Continued. 

Mac-o-chee. — II, ..... 57 

The Little Shoe, . . , . .61 

Serenade, . . . . . . 63 

Monody, ..... 65 

Song to , ..... 69 



After the Ball, 



Ariel, 



70 



In Memoriam — B. M. P., ... 73 

Melinda's Trail, ... .74 



11 



New Words to a Choice Old Song, . . 79 

One More Unfortunate, ... 81 

A Pathetic Ballad of Chicago, . 86 

Ye Granger is Poking Round, . . 89 
Louise Kirby Piatt — Epitaph, . . .92 

To a Star, ..... 93 

A Memory, . . . . .94 

Death of Custer, .... 96 

The Cowboy, ...... 98 

King Midas's Touch, .... 100 

The Kickers, ..... 102 

We May not Meet Again, . . . 104 

A Judicial Character, .... 106 

Morning Prayer, , 107 

To Die Alone, ..... 108 



Contents. vii 

POEMS.— Continued. 

Change, . 109 

Tecumseh, . . . . .110 

Oh, Sing no More, . ... hi 

Death, . . . . . .113 

PLAYS.— 

Lost and Won, . . • . . 115 
A King's Love, ..... 192 

Emotional Insanity, . • • • • 2 7 T 

Blennerhassett's Island, . . . 303 



POEMS. 



The Bloom mas on the Aider and the Tassel on the Com. 



T HEARD the bob-white whistle in the dewy breath of 

morn; 
The bloom was on the alder and the tassel on the corn. 
T stood with beating heart beside the babbling Mac-o-chee, 
To see my love come down the glen to keep her tryst 

with me. 

I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along, 
And pause to pluck a flower, or hear the thrush's song. 
Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen, 
She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little queen. 

Above my station, Heaven knows, that gentle maiden 
shone, 

For she was belle and wide-beloved, and I a youth un- 
known. 

The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on 
bended knee 

For love this gracious princess gave with all her heart to me. 

(9) 



io The Bloom was on the Alder, etc. 

So like a startled fawn, before my longing eyes she stood, 
With all the freshness of a girl in flush of womanhood 
I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine, 
And stammered as, in awkward speech, I begged her to 
be mine. 

'Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain that lulls a dim-lit 
dream ; 

7 T is sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the rip- 
pling stream ; 

'T is sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south 
wind sigh — 

More sweet than these and all besides was th' loving, low 
reply. 

The little hand I held in mine held all I had in life, 

To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife. 

7 T is said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned from 

above ; 
My angel walked with me on earth and gave to me her 

love. 

Ah ! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dimmed 

with tears; 
I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone years; 
For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy morn, 
With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the corn. 



Mac-o-chee — I. 



:«(M3hee — 1. 



1% /TY days among these wilds are spent 
[n restful, calm repose; 
No carking cares or discontent 

Disturb life's fitter close. 
Beyond these wooded hills 1 hear 

The world's unceasing roar, 
As breaks upon some inland ear, 
The tumult of a shore. 

To me these are no solitudes; 

For, all by memory tinged, 
From somber shadows of the woods 

To meadows willow-fringed, 
Are peopled with the forms I lost 

And loved so long ago, 
Ere on life's ocean tempest tossed 

I tasted of its woe. 



Mac-o-chee — /. 

The shy thrush sings for me a strain 

No other ear may hear, 
That brings to dreamy life again 

The forms my heart holds dear ; 
The red bird warbles overhead 

Its mellow woodland note, 
Recalling voices of the dead 

Hid in its tiny throat. 

The cat-bird carols to the day, 

The bob-white whistles free, 
The restless jay shrieks far away, 

Babbles the Mac-o-chee ; 
There 's not a scene nor sound but brings 

Its own sweet memory, 
There 's not a flower nor shrub but flings 

Its magic spell o'er me. 

Ah, what to me the ceaseless din, 

This fevered thing called life — 
What fools may fail, what knaves may win, 

In their ignoble strife ? 
This world so round is cold and bare, 

And tempts me not to roam, 
For heartless greed and gaunt-eyed care 

Will drive the weary home. 



Mac-o-chee — /. 13 

The trees I trim, the flowers I tend, 

Have but one sunny mood; 
My honest dog, my trusty friend, 

Has no ingratitude. 
And, oh, the crowning joy of life, 

Where'er that life may be, 
Is the true heart that through all strife 

Still loving trusts in me ! 



1 4 We Parted at the Omnibus. 



We Parted at the Omnibus. 



"\I fE parted at the omnibus, I never can forget, 

Your eyes, my dove, like stars above, with dew were 
heavy wet, 
Your luggage, love, I handed up, as the driver 'round 

did pull, 
I could not speak, for, oh ! my heart, like the omnibus, 
was full. 

Your slender hand's six-buttoned glove lay nestling soft 

in mine, 
Those tender eyes upon me shone in sadness so divine ; 
"Through life, my love, I go with you," I boldly had 

begun, 
When spoke a German passenger: "Dere's only zeats 

vor vun." 

Your miniature I had, my sweet, all painted warm and 

bland, 
My photograph I handed you, as the agent gave his 

hand. 



We Parted at the Omnibus. 1 5 

''You'll write to me, I know you will, this aching heart 

to ease, 
And every line from you will be" — "Miss, ten cents, if 

you please." 

I placed you in a corner, dear, to take that dreary ride, 
I saw a pair of checkered pants close sitting at your side ; 
With gun and hound from out the town to hunt 'twas 

going down ; 
I heard a suit of rusty black call pants a Mister Brown. 

With wooden damn the stage door slammed and shut 

you from my sight, 
I felt, indeed, that all was wrong, when the driver called 

" all right." 
Off rolled the yellow misery that took of mine no heed ; 
Four spanned hatracks prancing, a racker in the lead. 

The war came on, and I went off — what patriot heart 

could lag ? 
I seized a musket in my zeal and rallied round the flag ; 
I left two fingers on the field where gallant Hooker led, 
And lost a leg at Shiloh, where Sherman lost his head. 

I fought and marched, and starved, alas ! the toughest of 

our set ; 
A captain in the line, my girl, a gen'ral by brevet. 



1 6 We Parted at the Omnibus. 

Of checkered pants I got a view, resplendent in the blue, 
As sutler bold, he rallied too where profits did accrue. 

When peace her downy pinions spread o'er all our land 

and sea, 
I stumped me home, a veteran, with war's sad legacy ; 
I sought you love, to find, alas ! no footing left to me, 
For General Brown was to the front, a millionaire was he. 

'T was at a grand reunion, given in honor of our cause, 
The banners waved, the champagne popped, I got some 

wild applause ; 
I saw you enter, sweet and fair, the General led you down, 
You leaned to him with loving trust, he called you Mrs. 

Brown. 



A Saint. 17 



ft Saint. 



QO gentle yet so just, so firm and yet so kind, 
With never a thought of self to mar the good 
And noble nature of her womanhood ; 

Such as the mother striving us to bind 

In links of flowers to our dear Lord, her son. 
He sought to lift us to a heaven above — 
She brought that heaven down to earth in love 

And wrote upon our hearts, " Thy will be done ! " 

In meek submission to life's sorest ills. 

Ah ! darling wife, thy sainted patience stills 

The tumult of my being. Martyrs die 

And leave God's glory here to mark their loss; 

You living, bear, with no impatient sigh, 

Through all the years, the torture of the cross. 



1 8 Lake George. 



Lake George. 



T LINGER sadly, loth to say adieu 

To that which of me forms so sweet a part; 
The crystal waters, and the mountains blue, 
Are mirrored deeply in my heart of heart, 
And lake and mountains, rocks and wooded streams, 
Now pass from pleasant seeing to my world of dreams. 

Upon the lofty wooded mount I stand, 

Where erst of old the simple huntsman stood. 

I see about me far and wide expand 
The scenes of lake and mountains, isles and wood; 

Like him I linger loth to break the spell, 

That lives in one sad word, and vainly says farewell. 

How like vast giants in their deep repose 

These mountains rest beneath the autumn day ; 

From early morn until the evening's close 
The dreamy shadows on their summits play; 

While in the distance dim they catch the hue 

Of heavens, and melt in cloudland's deepest tint of blue. 



Lake George. 19 

I stood by lakes where peaks do pierce the sky, 
Snow-clad, and grand in rocky solitudes, 

I saw the homes where round them living lie 
Tradition-haunted tales of love and feuds ; 

Sweet human gossip chased the gloom so drear, 

And gave to what was grand humanity more dear. 

They had no beauty like to thine, Lake George, 

Where all that's grand, with all that's sweet, entwine. 

I see thy fairy isles, while down each gorge 
The birch and maple tint the gloomy pine ; 

Thy mountain sides are forests wide and deep, 

Where song birds nestle and the eagles scream and sweep. 

And all is wild, as in that early day 

The nations found a highway on thy shore, 

And meeting, battled for a world's wide sway; 
Thy mountains wakened to the mouthing roar 

Of deadly cannon, while from out each glen 

Came back the doubled thunder to the strife of men. 

And all is wild, as when the solemn mind 

Of Cooper told its tale of savage war; 
One were not startled in the wood to find 

The sage Mohican, or wild Iroquois, 
The dusky shadows of those shadowy things 
That will survive our life, in men's imaginings. 



o Lake George, 

Ah ! lovely lake, how I do long to dwell 

In humble quiet on thy fairy shore, 
With rod, and books, and those I love so well, 

Forgetting and forgot, live evermore ; 
To float upon thy water's peaceful sheen, 
Where love is life, and life a poet's happy dream. 

It may not be, for I am doomed to fight 
Where the arena calls for deadly strife, 

Facing the throng, to win, like Ishmaelite, 
A heritage of hate— a dreary life — 

Beloved by few, misunderstood by all, 

Where wit seems wantonness and impulse is but gall. 

Earth carries daylight in the heart of night, 
Swinging its glare amid eternal gloom ; 

So in our hearts we nurse our own delight, 
Nor measure aught by other's hope, or doom; 

We are not what we seem to each, and yet 

We haste to try and punish, with no vain regret. 

But why, in scenes like these, make weak complaint, 
Array our little ills, and fight them o'er ? 

When life is like the shadows, swift and faint, 
That dim these waters and are seen no more. 

Eternal hills are here, the flower and stream, 

Themselves survive the race that pass as in a dream. 



Lake George. 

Now dies apace the golden autumn day, 

Now steal the ghostly shadows from the glen, 

The stars are gathering in their glad array, 
And stillness falls upon the haunts of men ; 

Earth parts from me, and closing on my view, 

Back to the busy world I go. Fair lake, adieu ! 



/ Know that by the Golden Gate. 



I pool that by the Golden Gate. 



T KNOW that by the golden gate. 

Where Heaven the sinless see, 
Mine own doth longing watch and wait, 

In joy to welcome me ; 
No subtle change of spirit birth, 

Can aught of love disown, 
And she — my angel while on earth — 

Is mine before God's throne. 

No robes of light may hide that form, 

No joys can change that voice, 
That mid life's dreary toil and storm, 

Had made my heart rejoice ; 
Ah ! darling, in those blessed spheres, 

So far from sin and care, 
One voice of praise wells up through tears, 

For that I am not there. 



I Know that by the Golden Gate. 23 

Above thy grave, child like apart, 

I wring my hands and weep, 
Dread silence chills my aching heart 

To desolation's deep ; 
My life had end where thine had birth, 

When freed from care and pain, 
And thou, who brought me Heaven on earth, 

Lifts earth to God again. 



24 The Candidate. 



The Candidate. 



T^HE politician, smooth and bland, 

Has many winning ways, 
And to and fro throughout the land 
He travels all his days. 

A modest man, of modest ends, 

He runs reluctantly ; 
He 's ever forced, by certain friends, 

A candidate to be. 

It injures much his business 

To be a public func; 
For oftentimes, while under stress, 

He getteth beastly drunk. 

He speaks a piece to every man, 
However low and rude; 

Much takes he from newspapers, and 
Much is a platitude. 



The Candidate. 25 

The beer to drink, the babes to kiss, 

He hastily doth pass ; 
Among the agriculturists 

He tramples down the grass. 

He asks, with earnest bend of head 

After your family, 
And be they sick, or well, or dead, 

Never a cuss cares he. 



26 The Dinner Horn. 



The Diane* Hoffn. 

AS SUNG BY OLD SHACK. 

T^\E sun shine hot, as I hoe de cawn, 

De sweat rolls down like rain, 
Its nuffin but work from early mawn, 

Till de stahs peep out again \ 
Oh ! white man eats de whitest bread, 

De darkey eats de pone, 
De white man has de fedder bed, 

De darkey shucks an' stone. 

Wake up, wake up, ole Dinah, 
Ise hoin' here since mawn, 

Ise weak as sin, Ise comin' in, 
Oh ! blow de dinneh hawn. 

De bob-white whistles for his wife, 
De cat-bird mews low down, 

De jay's a screamin' for de strife, 
De crows am cawin' round : 



The Dinner Horn. 27 

De woodfrush rolls de music out , 

From top ob yonder tree, 
Dere 's best ob music all about, 

But 't aint de best foh me. 

Wake up, wake up, ole Dinah, 
From day dat I was bawn, 

I 'd start an' stan', and clap my han', 
To heah de dinneh hawn. 

De preachah say dat ole Gabril 

Has hawn to wake de dead, 
He blows from off de highest hill, 

An' all jes raise de head; 
I wants to heah dat 'ligious toon, 

To set dis spirit free, 
But Oh ! ole Gabe, along 'bout noon ! 

De dinneh hawn foh me. 

Wake up, wake up, ole Dinah, 

I perish in de cawn, 
Its noon ob sun, de hoe-cake 's done, 

Oh ! blow de dinneh hawn. 

Miss Lilley opes pianner, 

Dis darkey foh to please, 
Her white hands — oh Susanner! 

Charm music from de keys ; 



The Dinner Horn. 

Dey fluttah like de snow-white bird, 

Above de tasseled cawn, 
Dey catch my soul — what's dat I heard? 

Good Lawd! de dinneh hawn. 

Blow high, blow low, Oh ! Dinah, 
Jes make de windin' stawm, 

Foh,high or low, I draps dat hoe, 
When comes de dinneh hawn. 



Obituary — F. K. 



Obituary. — p. %. 



Art and eloquence, 
And all the shows o' the world are frail and vain, 
To weep a loss that turns their light to shade. 
It is a woe " too deep for tears," when all 
Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, 
Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves 
Those who remain behind, nor sobs nor groans, 
The passionate tumult of a clinging hope ; 
But pale despair and cold tranquillity, 
Nature's vast frame, the web of human things, 
Birth and the grave, that are not as they were. 



3° To 



To 



TI THEN from the half-forgotten past 

Return my youthful days, 
And through the rift of clouds o'ercast 

The light of memory plays, 
My eyes are dimmed with idle tears 

That dead affections claim ; 
For thy sweet face so sweet appears 

At mention of thy name. 

I knew thee when we both were young, 

And in Bohemia's clime 
We lived and laughed and loved and sung 

With art alone divine. 
Ah ! what a subtle, girlish grace 

You o'er my pathway threw — 
An angel in an earthly place, 

So fair and frank and true. 



To 31 

And many a love since that far time 

Rose tints my wild career, 
And beauty, wit and grace divine, 

Claims each its smile or tear ; 
Yet over all thy earnest eyes 

Return so sweet to me, 
As if a single star should rise 

To light a troubled sea. 

So you 're a mother, matron, sage, 

And I am growing old : 
With all the faults of frosty age, 

So cynical and cold ; 
And yet my heart within me glows 

When memory o'er it plays, 
As sunset tints Sierran snows 

With summer's softest rays. 

I hear the waves around me roar, 

And where the dark clouds dip, 
Fades out the dim and distant shore, 

As sails our stately ship, 
Ah ! thus I pass from out my past 

And sweet romance of life, 
To where my weary lot is cast 

In bitterness and strife. 



$2 The Laborers Hymn. 



The Laborer's Hymn. 



'T'HE rich and proud they pass me by, 

For I am poorly born, 
A workman rough, but naught care I 

For all their lofty scorn. 
I feel my manhood in me stir 

No envy of their greed, 
For Christ was bred a carpenter, 

And God our work decreed. 

My humble home is by the road, 

Where my dear ones abide ; 
I care not for the rich abode, 

Where dwells dishonest pride ; 
For peace and love breathe o'er us all, 

And we can spurn the scorn 
That looked down on the humble stall 

Where Christ himself was born. 



The Laborers Hymn. 33 

I know that from our dreary toil 

They steal their silks and lace ; 
Their very bread wrought from the soil 

We give them, with their grace \ 
And man must sweat where fraud prevails 

And theft holds high command, 
For cunning wins, while labor fails, 

Throughout the freest land. 

Let not despair our souls enthrall, 

For God is with the right, 
And we who feed and foster all 

As readily can smite, 
When guant privation haunts the den, 

And children cry for bread, 
We wait the painted vermin then, 

When Labor strikes them dead. 

We patient beasts, with human hearts, 

Can bear the burden long, 
But comes a time when nature starts 

To right the cruel wrong, 
As when miasma fills the air, 

With fever's fearful train, 
The thunder's roll, the lightning glare, 

And storms come on amain. 



34 The Ohio Boat- Horn. 



The Ohio Boat-Horn. 



"O boatman! wind thy horn again." 

Wm. O. Butler. 

f~\ LIST ! the boat-horn's soft refain 

O'er eve's still waters, swelling clear, 
So wildly sweet, so sad a strain, 

Ne'er woke before to charm the ear. 
What dreams its melody awakes 

Of life upon the lost frontier, - 
When to the rivers, forests, lakes 

There came the sturdy pioneer. 

Out on the wave, while floating down, 

He boldly trod his little deck, 
And dreamed, his dearest close around, 

Of wild adventure, storm and wreck ; 
That strain he wound his way to cheer, 

In dewy eve or golden morn, 
The startled Indian paused to hear 

In echoes sweet his simple horn. 



The Ohio Boat- Horn. 

That note erst smote on tower and town 

Its winding challenge, clear and high, 
And battling hosts for land and crown, 

Were summoned out to do or die; 
And so it herald empire then 

O'er wilds that stretched from sea to sea. 
Wild music to the tramp of men 

That told of millions yet to be. 

O boatman ! wind thy horn again, 

I fain would hear iis note once more. 
There lives along its magic strain 

The deeds our fathers wrought of yore. 
Their forms are moldering into dust, 

Their very homes have passed away, — 
How strange your strain should hold in trust 

Their sacred memories from decay ! 



35 



$6 The Blue Jay. 



The Blue Jay. 



'^pHE little scamp, I hear his shriek of warning 

That tells his blue police the foe is nigh — 
A goggle-eyed old owl caught out by morning, 

So dazed by light he can not fight nor fly. 
From field and forest, haystack, fence and thicket, 

Shrieking like fiends they swiftly gather in; 
There's no pursuit of gain, or grain, but quick it 

Drops the bit for duty in the din. 

The night assassin sees in grotesque wonder 

Blue streaks about his horned noddle dart; 
From side to side they flash — now o'er, now under — 

And every prick but make him snap and start. 
Ah ! have a care, most noble, daring Captain — 

A clutch, a snap, a shriek of wild despair : 
There's one brave jay beyond the need of Chaplain — 

A cloud of feathers flash upon the air. 



The Blue Jay. 37 

Then comes a blessed silence of a minute ; 

For Death's grim presence even chills a jay. 
Brief space for grief, the shrieks again begin it ; 

Anon the woods are ringing with the fray. 
The downy, pinioned thief, night's dark marauder, 

Feels all the anguish of a hopeless fight 
With foes despised ; and so in grave disorder 

He spreads his wings and fairly takes to flight. 

How like a dream he floats o'er field and meadow, 
Fast followed by his foes' victorious cries, 

To where the burr-oak glen, with trees bent head low, 
Dims the fierce light for better use of eyes. 

The little scamps accept the situation, 

And leave their foe his fortress to command ; 

They quick disperse, with shrill congratulation, 
To thieve like Satan over all the land. 

The little Frenchman of the fields and wildwood, 

The dashing, daring, handsome cavalier, 
Dear companion of my dreamy childhood, 

Of all the birds the boldest buccaneer, 
Nest robber, orchard thief, round stack and garden, 

Busy as sin, with such a business air, 
On scare-crow's very hat with corn grain hard in 

His little claw he cracks without a ca^e. 



38 The Blue Jay. 

When storm clouds gather in the Fall's dark session, 

And rain makes music on my maple trees, 
While other birds are hushed in damp depression, 

The clear "e-lii-ick" floats upon the breeze. 
Snow can not cow, nor bitter winter boss 'em ; 

No want nor hunger can their spirits tame • 
In Spring with blue they shade the apple blossom, 

And Summer finds them shrieking all the same. 



Got field Dead. 39 



Garfield Dead. 



"Duncan is in his grave ; 
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. 
Treason has done his worst ; nor steel, nor poison, 
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 
Can touch him further." — Shakespeare. 

TJURT unto death and dead at last. In vain 
The cry of anguish from the people wrung, 
That like a tender mother, tearful hung 

In grief sublime, 
Counting by pulse-beats the fatal steps of time 

Above that bed of pain. 
The land was dark with sorrow. From wooded Maine 
To where the wide Pacific chafes the Golden Gate, 
From blue north lakes down to the flowery state, 
From cities, hamlets, mountain, glen, and plain, 

E'en from the wilderness, 
Wherever a human heart has beat, or human footstep trod, 

Went up to God 
The cry for succor in our sore distress. 

The fearful rent 



4o Garfield Dead. 

That internicine war wrought us in twain, 

His precious blood is God's cement 
To bind us in one brotherhood again. 
Grief washed out passion's angry hue, 
And mingling tears for him come gray and blue. 

In vain 
Majiy selfish factions seek once more to reign, 

And stir to life 
Our evil passions into bloody strife, 
That once our nation's hopes in common ruin blent. 
Land whispered unto land. Beneath the solemn main, 
Through dark, unfathomed caves, the lightning laden 

nerve of life 
For an instant trembled with our tale of pain, 

And nations paused amid their vexing strife 
To send their sorrow back to us again. 
Crowned heads were bowed, and back-bent toil, 
Watering with unrequited sweat the alien soil, 

With uncovered head, 
Stood in the presence of our mighty dead. 
The dead have lain in state, 
The wise, the good, the great — 
Soldier, statesman, potentate — 
And o'er the land, to grief awake, 
Huge bells swinging to and fro, 

Solemn and slow, 



Garfield Dead. 41 

With iron tongues have told their tales of woe, 
While waves of music beat upon the air 
In rhythmed sweetness all their wild despair. 
It was our living that we laid in state, 

And the nation, desolate, 
Through the heavy watches with breath abate, 
And hearts nigh broken praying for the balm 
Of health again ; for on that quickening breath 
And fever hurried face rode Death 
Ah ! not for him alone ; we saw with dread 
The Great Republic hanging by a slender thread ; 

And he alone was calm. 
Patient and brave, as gentle as a child, 

He sadly smiled, 
While grief around was wild, 

And took the chance they gave him. Tender and true, 
How sweet and homely were his words of cheer, 
In answer to his poor wife's tears and fear, 
" Do n't cry, sweetheart; we will yet pull through." 
What recks all glory to that lonely- home, 
Where sits the mother, aged and alone ? 
Of all, alas ! bereft, sad she sits, and dreams 

Upon life's earlier scenes ; 
Of the hard struggle and her noble son, 
Who fought through all until the goal was won ; 



42 Garfield Dead. 

And in th' hour of triumph, with loving grace, 
Turned to kiss her in the nation's place. 

She can not feel him dead ; 
His manly form and noble head 

Are ever with her; he's "her baby" still; 
The dim perceptions cloud the present o'er, 

And save the pains that kill. 
The broken rainbow yet its arch retains, 
And points to earth like life. Our grave remains, 
Whatever glory be for us in store. 
God help the brave, true heart 

That lost not hope till hope itself was dead — 
The loving wife who filled an angel's part, 

And smiled to cheer above a heart that bled ; 
Who crowded down the blinding tears 
And anguished fears, 
Hiding her pain, 
That she alone might nurse her lord to life again. 
Our hero's widow is a nation's care, 
Her babes the people's own, 
Ah, me ! of what avail the groan, 
The lamentations all must share ? 
Vain mockery of words. They deeper grief will start 
To one who carries dead like this upon her living heart. 

Thou art gone, 
And the great world goes roaring on — 



Garfield Dead. 43 

The cities hum of human life, the roar 

Of ocean on the rocky shore ; 

Season follows season, and o'er the land, 

In sun and storm, the farmer's horny hand 

Tills the warm earth ; 

Myriads of men have birth, 

And myriads are carried to the tomb; 

Birds sing, and flowers bloom, 

And shining rivers roll in music to the sea ; 

No more, no more ; oh ! never more may we 

Turn in our love to thee. 

We search in vain, 
By mountain side, or lake, or plain, 
Or thy loved solitude 
Of thought haunted wood, 

Or rocky glen, 
Or mid the busy haunts of men ; 

No more may we our hero see, 
Thy kingly form is moldering into dust ; 
Thy spirit is with God, we trust; 

Thy life has passed into a memory. 



44 An Adieu. 



fin fldiea. 



*T^HE season 's ended and we part, my belle; 
I try to smile you off, yet find it no go. 
It is absurd, and yet my feelings swell 

And heart is heavy as your Saratoga, 
That holds your many graces and my pain 
And marks alike my conquest and your reign. 

We met, 'twas at a " german"- — Mrs. Beal's, 
The gayest throng — ah, well I it remember, 

The snowy shoulders, and the pointed heels 

That swelled a tide of dazzling grace and splendor, 

And filled the ancient house from base to attic — 

Solons, sailors, soldiers and corps diplomatic. 

I saw you, fresh and sweet, among the flirts, 
I saw your gorgeous dress direct from Paris \ 

You rose a Venus from a sea of skirts, 
The world and me, alas, in love to harass, 

There was such meaning in your witching smile, 

So simply, yet so knowing, guileless guile. 



An Adieu. 45 

In this first season, out upon your cheek 
The color came and went in its sweet way; 

You looked so modest when I came to speak, 
And yet so queenly graceful, I could say 

Naught of the patronizing rot we hiss 

Into the listening ears of wife or miss. 

We talked the weather, then we diagnosed 
Your parent's ailments — each was ill I know ; 

Mamma had indigestion ; papa toed 

Rheumatic gout or something in his toe ; 

I was so charmed by stomach and by toes 

That seemed such music from your lips of rose. 

Ah, what an ass is man when man's in love — 
An ass he must be then his love to win ; 

The Bottom found Titania all a dove, 

And we must sigh though all the world may grin ; 

And so, my belle, I lifted you on high, 

Then breathed my very soul out. in a sigh. 

We make the thing we worship; you to me, 
Too pure and artless were for sinful earth ; 

The terrapin I fed you seemed to be 

Food for the gods — ah, what a blighting death 

Fell on the house, when just at two 

Your papa's carriage whirled you from my view. 



46 An Adieu. 

And so we " germaned" into love at night, 
And flirted mildly, dear one, day by day j 

At last encouraged by your eyes' soft light, 
At Mrs. Stockton's dancing matinee, 

I pressed your little hand, so soft and nice, 

And told my burning love above an ice. 

You blushing, laughed, and laughing looked again 
A shy, sweet glance that did my love eclipse, 

And ate in silence ; oh what blissful pain ; 
My soul and ice seemed melting on your lips, 

Reckless in bliss, entranced, I never stirred, 

Though Clarkson Potter heard my lowest word. 

'T was after dinner, at your papa's house, 
I clasped you to my heart, my all adored, 

Whispering accepted love, you little mouse, 
While in a chair your solemn papa snored. 

I clasped and kissed and begged you mine to be, 

You said, " go speak to my paternal B." 

You ran away and I awakened him, 

Alas, I wakened, too, from dreams of bliss; 

Paternal bird, he made my senses swim, 
By a few words that fairly seemed to hiss ; 

"That girl is crazy," cried paternal B., 

"You are the sixth this week she sent to me." 



An Adieu. 47 

And now adieu, my little witch, adieu, 

The season 's ended, take my parting sigh. 

Our ways go widening still the wide world through, 
The night is done, morn trembles in the sky ; 

The love I cherished that once seemed my star, 

Dies like the light from this, my last cigar. 



48 A. C. F. 



fl. G. F. 

"TV /TY eyes are dim with tears unshed, 

My heart is stirred with pain, 
For memories of the sainted dead, 

Are haunting me again. 
The blue-bird's carol, on the limb 

Where apple blossoms bloom, 
Has brought the vision, dear yet dim, 

From out its heart-locked tomb. 

Sweet spirit of the opening spring, 

And incense laden air, 
When orchards bloom and wild birds sing, 

And earth is fresh and fair ; 
No violets from the winter wake, 

Nor buds burst from the tree, 
Nor wood-thrush sings, but join, to make 

For thee, a memory. 



A. C. F. 49 

I see again thy perfect face, 

And strangely lustrous eye, 
The slender form, the girlish grace, 

And ways so frank, yet shy. 
Ah ! me, what years since then have fled, 

Along their troubled way, 
And left me here to mourn the dead, 

And memorize decay. 

The spring returns, but no return 

Of life's young love and trust, 
Fond memory lingers o'er the urn, 

That marks the mold'ring dust; 
Alone I pace the pleasant round, 

So oft in fancy traced, 
Where every rood seems fairy ground, 

Her gracious presence graced. 

Ah ! child of genius little 'known, 

But largely loved on earth, 
What careless wit by thee was sown, 

What fancies had their birth 
To drop, like rose leaves, on the road 

That shadowed all thy days ; 
Dear, gentle form to bear such load, 

Along life's dreary ways. 
5 



5 o a. a p. 

? T is peace at last, above thy grave 

The grass is green again, 
The wild birds sing, the flowers wave 

Soft falls the silvery rain. 
Ah ! blessed rest, that ends this coil — 

This fevered thing called life — 
The long, long sleep that, after toil, 

Sooths down our weary strife. 



5i 



Song. 

A HEALTH, a health to Lizzie lass, 
And let the wine go round. 
For here within each sparkling glass 

Her lovely self is found; 
Her beauty 's like the bubbling rain, 

That dazzles ere 'tis past; 
Her wit, how like our own champagne, 
Can floor us all at last. 

Her smile is sunlight, and. her laugh 

Tnat sunlight set to tune ; 
Her breath the honey-bee might quaff, 

Drowned in its rich perfume. 
Flower-born from out the sunny south, 

Her form makes stoics sigh, 
Love lingers round her rosy mouth, 

The devil in her eye. 



This night I pressed her little hand, 

And breathed my last adieu ; 
To-morrow sees my native land 

Sink in the waters blue. 
Oh! nevermore may eyes of mine 

My little darling see. 
Oh! comrades, drown me deep in wine, 

The world is dead to me. 



From an Album. 53 



Ffom an Album. 

VTOU never asked poor me to bring 
My humble tribute to your shrine ; 
Perchance you thought I could not sing 

Where sweeter bards have sung sublime ; 
But feelings make the song, not words, 
Or else our bards were brainless birds. 

I 've gazed upon thy gentle face, 
When little noted, long and oft, 

F ve loved thy form of witching grace, 
And heard thy voice so low and soft : 

The charms that common men adore, 

Saw these and dreamed of something more 

There is a meaning in those eyes, 

That few may fathom, all may feel, 

Telling of thought that underlies 

Our better nature, when we steal, 

Prometheus like, another soul 

To strengthen, soften, and control. 



54 From an Album. 

And can it be that one so young, 

So fair, so fresh, so gay and bright, 

Has yet a memory o'er her hung 

That gives us all a second sight ? 

What see'st thou, oh maiden fair, 

To bring this nameless charm and air ? 

The sea-shell whispers of the sea, 

And evening dews the rose distills, 

And, music lives in memory, 

The sound though dead the soul yet thrills, 

And each in each itself repeats, 

The heart alone its secret keeps. 

Oh! shallow fool, to speculate, 

And on such shadow thus refine, 

The what thou see'st is but fate 

That waits upon the gift divine, 

The genius rare that swiftly flings 

What dull experience slowly brings. 

My rhyme is ended. Oh ! that I 

Could end my sorrows with my song. 

I close these pages with a sigh 

And realize the pain of wrong ; 

For charms thy face and form adorn, 

Though born to bliss leave me forlorn. 



1 send yon your Letters. 55 



I send you yoof Letters. 



T SEND you your letters, 

Oh ! would I might send 
The feeling that fetters 

My being and end. 
Like light on the mountain 

These joys of the past, 
Eve's rays on the fountain, 

The lovliest and last. 

Oh ! dost thou remember, 

The dim little room, 
Where gloomy November 

Saw our joy and doom ? 
We met but to sever, 

We meet not again ; 
Ah ! vain the endeavor, 

The anguish, how vain ! 



5 6 / send you your Letters . 

These close-written pages, 

These forms of the past, 
In the war the heart wages 

With fate they are cast; 
Yet I give them all to thee, 

True heart, once my own, 
Let others go woo thee, 

I now am alone. 



Mac-o-chee — //. 57 



JffaeMOHGhee — II. 



T T OW many a vanished hour, and day, 
Have sunlight o'er me shed, 
Since last I saw these waters play 

Along their pebbly bed. 
The bird bent bough above them swings, 

The waves .dance bright below, 
From the hazel near the cat-bird sings, 
As in long years ago. 

O'er blue-edged height, and sun-lit plain, 

Soft falls the purple noon, 
On rustling corn, and waving grain, 

On stream and still lagoon ; 
Hard by the brook the black bird trills, 

The glossy coated crow 
Croaks hoarsely on the breezy hills, 

As in long years ago. 



5 8 Mac-o-chee — //. 

The falcon, like a censor sung, 

Circles the blue above, 
The quail is calling to her young, 

While coos the mournful dove; 
The elder bloom, by road and stream, 

Lies heaped, like drifted snow, 
The meadow birch nods to its dream, 

As in long years ago. 

The drowsy bee, on laden wings, 

Voices the dreamy day, 
The squirrel chatters as he swings, 

While screams the restless jay ; 
The mild eyed cattle, slow and grave, 

Swish in the shaded pool, 
Where hoarse frogs croak, and tall flags wave, 

And clear springs bubble cool. 

And now, as in that far-off time, 

The village sounds are dear, 
The cry of children, and the chime 

Of bells, break on the ear; 
My playmates then are bearded men, 

The men wax old and slow, 
Or sleep within God's silent glen, 

Where broods the long ago. 



Mac-o-chee — II. 59 

I may not sing, my eyes so dim, 

I may not sing the change 
That wrought upon my soul within, 

Its sadness, still and strange; 
Nor here by fragile flower and stream, 

Repeat the well worn lay, 
How we the fleeting shadows seem, 

Immortal substance they. 

But ah ! these trees, and birds, and skies, 

And scented flower's bloom, 
Are all to me as one who lies 

Hid in a hollow tomb ; 
Where murmurs of a busy world, 

Sift through the creviced stone, 
And like a leaf but half unfurled, 

Leaves all the tale unknown. 

Round every life an Eden lies, 

In golden glow of youth, 
When romance tints with tender dyes, 

The solemn page of truth, 
When newer being thrills the heart, 

To young love's magic hand, 
And, as awake from dreams, we start 

To gaze on fairy land. 



60 Mac-o-chee — II. 

What deeper blue the skies assume, 

What tints the earth takes on, 
What roseate hues our paths illume, 

A moment, then 't is gone. 
And back to earth we turn again ; 

Back to its weary strife, 
Yet, through all sorrow, sin, and pain, 

One vision sweetens life. 



The Little Shoe. 61 



The Little Shoe. 



r T > HE sweetest little girl that ever lived 
Is chatting gayly by my easy chair, 
Adown her shapely head like sunlight sieved 

Through evening shadows falls her golden hair ; 
Her fairy form is leaning on my knee, 

Her earnest eyes are gazing up to mine, 
With what a faith she all believes in me, 

That child-like faith our Savior called divine. 

The pain her presence brings she can not dream, 

Reviving sorrow long since worn dry, 
From out a channel of a storm born stream, 

That tore my aching heart in years gone by ; 
Her silvery voice recalls the voice of one, 

Long passed through death, unto the dread unknown 
When my ewe-lamb, my one, with life was done, 

And, left me childless, homeless and alone. 



62 The Little Shoe. 

In yonder drawer there lies a little shoe, 

Tear stained and faded, in its wraps apart, 
All scuffed out and torn to tawny hue — 

It patters yet upon my aching heart. 
Frail relic thus to hold so grave a trust, 

And bridge with grief the many weary years 
The little form 's long molded into dust, 

I see it only through my blinding tears. 

Along these halls there sound no pattering feet, 

No eager face peers through the door ajar, 
No joyous shout my comings ring to greet, 

No busy fingers my sad labors mar. 
One little death has made my house a tomb, 

One cruel stroke has forced my life apart 
From all its healthful growth, and it was doomed 

To fruitage of a mutilated heart. 

We pity the deformed, the crippled find 

Of human charity a helpful store, 
But take no thought of hurts that blind 

And half destroy our being at its core. 
Back to thy hiding-place, dear little shoe, 

Back with thy memories of saddened years ; 
You give to dreary life a softer hue, 

And, after all, a blessing in these tears. 



Serenade. 63 



Serenade. 



■\ \ 7HILE bright stars are keeping, 
Their watch in the sky, 
And song-birds are sleeping 
To Summer's low sigh, 
I leave the lone pillow 

My weary head prest, 
And steal to the lattice 
Of her I love best. 

Breathe low, gentle music, 

Steal into her dream 
Like the sweet voice of flowers 

That whispers the stream ; 
I would not recall her 

From dreamland of bliss, 
Even in music, 

To troubles of this. 



64 Serenade. 



As white as the snow-flake, 

As warm as the sun, 
As soft as the moss rose 

The South breathes upon ; 
Sleep holds her enchanted 

In dreamy repose, 
As odors of evening 

In clasp of the rose. 

Oh, long night of sorrow, 

Of heartache and sighs, 
Without the bright morrow 

That sleeps in her eyes ! 
What gulf lies between us, 

From goodness to sin, 
From the passion without 

To the heaven within ! 



Monody. 65 



Jflonody. 

I weep for Adonis — he is dead !— Shelley. 

T)OLAND is dead ! We weep for Poland, 

High old bishop of the mountains green; 
Brass-buttoned, swallowed-tailed, in no land 
Will the venerable pump, lofty and serene, 
Any more be seen. 
It seemeth now a dream 
That erst he stood among the solons solemn, 
Gray-haired, erect, a very column 
Of pious sweetness, playing with, his fob 

Where hung the ancient seal, 
While spreading softly o'er each dirty job 
The unctious cover of his righteous zeal. 

The great investigator is at rest, 

In the final home by Christian statesmen blest, 
Where ghostly shadows stalk the silent shore, 
Where smiling Schuyler smiles no more, 



66 Monody. 

And Pomeroy, Harlan, Hooper and the rest 
Have journeyed o'er. 

Last of the Christain statesmen, over thee 

We drop our several tears. 
The lobby's hung ir black, and lo ! we see 
The weeping carpet-baggers pale with fears, 
And huge contractors and petticoated dears, 
Forming the long procession, and loud they cry 
Along the vaulted sky : 

"Our mighty Poland's dead; 
Our Bishop 's dead ; 
Old Subsidy is dead; 
The deadest sort of dead ; 
Let tears be shed. 
For no perq's can raise him from his lowly bed. 

We are forlorn; 
We see the crib and can not get the corn." 

The White House seems a whited sepulcher — 

There is no stir 
Along its lofty rooms, but sounds 
Of wailing reach us from camp-meeting grounds, 
When the dread Caesar prays. 
He seeks at last to leave the crooked ways, 



Monody. 67 

Startled by Poland's fate and shortened days; 
Forsaking all fast things, he fasts always. 

Hearken now to Dana — Dana of the Sun- 
The sun that shines for all ; 
He singeth a madrigal ; 
For that his enemy is dead and done, 
Who, with ye Harrington 
And other villians, to the Capital 

Him would have dragged 

In grievous irons bound, 
Likewise well gagged. 

Now hearken to the joyful sound : 
Great Dana lately in a funk, 
Drinketh much lager and forthwith getteth drunk. 

Hear the sainted Mormons loud rejoice 

In tones polygamous, 
Lifting a solemn voice 

To thank the Lord for thus 
Destroying the great Goliah of the House, 

Who sought to rob them of their many wives, 

Likewise their lands and mines and teeming hives, 
That carpet-baggers might carouse 

On gains ill-gotten — the thieving crew — 
That God will yet gridiron for his favored nation. 
To this old Brigham had a special revelation, 



68 Monody. 

For he foretold our Poland dead, 

And heard the solemn tolling of a bell 
That said old Poland's gone to hell, 

And Satan's breaking bark upon his legislative head. 

Now hear the fearful chimes. 
Newman's iron rhymes, 
How they ring and roar and swell, 
Ding dong bell, 
Making each listener hold his aching head, 
Wishing old Poland damned as well as dead. 

No more, no more, oh ! never more may we 
Count up our little perq's, nor ever see 

The sweet subsidy 
Blessed by Poland for poor humanity. 
A pall hangs over Willard's, the Ebbitt's done, 
And gloom has settled on the Arlington ; 
In Welcker's fascinating rooms the lights burn blue, 
Crape hangs on knobs south of the avenue ; 
From sample-rooms the joyous laugh has fled, 
Hertzog a mammoth tear has shed, 

For Poland dead. 



Song. 69 



Song. 

To—. 
A S rivulets to the river run, 
The rivers to the sea, 
'Neath starry skies, or cloudless sun, 

To where their rest may be, 
My heart's deep love, oh, dearest one, 
Forever flows to thee. 

Nor birds, nor flowers, nor bending trees 
The restless waves may stay, 

Nor shining stars nor wooing breeze 
Win e'en a brief delay; 

They murmur of the distant seas, 
And murmuring flow alway. 

I want the words to sing, my love, 

Of love's sweet ecstasy, 
Resistless as the rivers, love, 

And boundless as the sea, 
That cares not for the heaven above 

If heaven holds not thee. 



7o After the Ball. 



flfte* the Ball. 



T CARE not for these stars of earth, 

Though ever lovely things, 
Unless, dear girl, they gather worth 

From what wild fancy brings. 
'T is thus, oh, Lucy ! with the wreath 

That late you gave to me, 
For ever since it seems to breathe 

Not of itself, but thee. 

I look on it and see again, 

Beneath the chandelier, 
Where fell in waves the witching strain 

Of music on the ear, 
Thy lovely form that seemed to rise 

As from a foamy sea, 
The goddess of my heart held eyes 

Born of the melody. 



After the Ball 71 

I joined you in the whirling dance, 

I clasped your fairy form ; 
I drank in madness from the glance 

That lost its look of scorn. 
I had one glimpse for life to sigh 

From out those lustrous eyes, 
As one who lingers longing by 

The gates of Paradise. 

'Twas seen — 'twas gone; I stood alone 

Amid the merry throng; 
The lightning's flash had o'er me shone, 

Then darkness swept along, 
The music lost its tone or mirth, 

And seemed a funeral strain, 
That marched me back to weary earth, 

To weary self again. 

And once again we met — 'twas brief; 

My heart with envy stirs, 
To dream upon thy form beneath 

The cloak of silks and furs. 
I said, Good night ; your papa said, 

"The carriage waits, my dear," 
When softly from your lovely head 

This wreath you dropped me near. 



72 Afterihe Ball. 

The night is passing, and its sheen 

Of stars melt in the morn; 
I sit alone to drink and dream 

So weary and forlorn ; 
For now we go our various ways — 

While mine is cold and drear, 
For you, as papa fondly says, 

The carriage waits, my dear. 



In Memoriam. — B. M. P. 73 



In |?IemoFiam — B. |W. P. 



CO brave and true through all the troubled past, 
Guiding his life on honor's highest plane, 
Strong in his guard 'gainst selfish greed of gain ; 

So sad and tragic to break down at last ! 

He stood so calm 'mid sulphurous smoke of death, 
Worked on in patience 'neath privation's sway, 

Found wealth in love, with ne'er a hasty breath 
To mar with strife life's saddest, darkest day; 

We thought him strong, nor took account of pain, 
That wrecked his trusting nature as it fell ; 

The silver cord was broken in the strain, 

The golden pitcher shattered at the well. 

Poor Ben ! grief builds for thee a purer fame, 

So sleep in peace beneath thy honored name. 



74 Melinda's Trail. 



Belinda's Tfail. 



" Whereby hangs a tale, sir ? Marry, sir." 

Othdlo. 
" Mistress, you must tell us another tale." 

Twelfth Night. 

O HE walks upon the avenue, 
This female friend of mine, 

With figure that is exquisite, 
And face that is divine, 

And dresses in the latest style, 
That develops much behind. 

The hair upon her philo 

Is heaped up like a stack, 

The pannier on her n. w. side 
Looks like a camel's back ; 

Her trail upon the dirty street 
A comet in its track. 



Melinda? s Trail. 75 

This trail is made of satin 

Or silk, as may be seen, 
And cost her verdant father 

No end of backs called green, 
And for the sweeping of the street 

Is a rather high machine. 

The fashion comes from Europe, 

Where 't is called a carriage dress ; 

But Melinda has no carriage 
Her little soul to bless, 

So the filthy bricks and asphalt 
Get a satiny caress. 

Now as Melinda sweeps along 

The sunny avenue 
She looks so pure and innocent 

In every line and hue, 
She seems an angel in disguise 

Dropped from the very blue. 

But when this lovely creature seeks 

At home her night's repose, 
And dofif's her carriage garment, Lord 

What facts she can disclose 
In the horrible condition 

Of her hidden underclothes. 



76 Melinda' s Trail. 

Her balbriggins, that 's Irish now 
For a better style of hose, 

Have dust and dirt and oder too, 
Enough to turn one's nose, 

While her petticoats, etc., 

A board of health would pose. 

There 's miasma in Melinda, 

This creature soft and frail j 

She gets it on the avenue 
And holds it at retail ; 

But what a tale she can unfold 
In unfolding of her trail. 

'Tis said on one occasion she 
Turned out many a quid, 

Some very dirty paper and 
An old tobacco lid, 

A defunct frog and something worse 
That in the folds were hid. 

Now if you meet Melinda sweet 
In all her glittering show, 

And feel a soft emotion where 

The heart throbs come and go, 

The cure is to remember well 
Her fearful fix below. 



Ariel. 7 7 



Mel. 



T LONGED to see thee, sweet unseen, 
I longed to hear thee, sweet unheard, 

Before the ideal of my dream, 

My heart within was strangely stirred; 

As if thy soul, unseen, all seeing, 

Had touched the inner cord of being. 

I stood as on that magic isle, 

Where clouds hung heavy in the sky, 
And rocks and trees were still the while, 

The troubled waters tumbled by, 
Wrathful at winds no longer near, 
So fair and grand, and yet so drear. 

'T was then thy music seemed to sweep 
Along the pure and storm-seived air — 

■ ' Thy hopes are buried in the deep, 
Full fathom five ; in death so fair, 

They sleep, they sleep, while o'er them leap 

The surging waves that requiem keep." 



73 Ariel. 

The rocks looked on the cloudy sky, 
The sky looked on the rolling sea, 

O'er sands and waves the weary eye 
No sign of human life could see; 

And after pause the sweet refrain 

Stole like a dirge upon the brain. 

Oh ! world of waters wide and deep, 

Oh ! lovely isle that mocked my dole, 

Oh ! music wild and weird and sweet, 

That brought such solace to my soul. 

My hopes were buried ; would they change 

Swift into something rich and strange ? 

The fairest barks go down at sea, 

The saddest hearts mourn on the shore, 

A dirge is all our melody, 

No more, no more, oh ! never more ! 

Then mock us not with hope of change .. 

Into that something sweet and strange. 

They all have melted into air, 

The sea and isle and song have fled, 

I sit with my companion, Care, 

With heavy heart and weary head; 

And yet I thank thee for the strain 

That woke to life the dream again. 



JSFew Words to a Choice Old Song. 79 



flem Words to a Choice Old Song. 



I 



KNEW a man once built his house 
Upon an icy plain, 
And thought, poor man, his house would stand, 
Throughout the summer's rain. 

That man he was a wondrous fool ; 

A greater fool is he 
Who puts his trust in woman's love 

And lauds her constancy. 

I knew a man once take his hound 

His better friend to be, 
And in his ears his hopes and fears 

He poured incessantly. 

That man he was a wondrous fool ; 

A greater fool is he 
Who feels a lack for women's clack; 

And lauds their brilliancy. 



8o New Words to a Choice Old Song. 

Then let us clink and drain our drink 

To women, wit and wine, 
Things very good when understood, 

But not at all divine. 

For he who drinks till he gets drunk 
Has little wit, I ween, 

But less has he whom love makes see 
His wench a very queen. 



One More Unfoitunate. 81 



One ftoe Unfortunate. 



/^vH! tell me, am I dying? 

Can this indeed be death, 
That weighs so heavy on my heart 

And clutches at my breath ? 
Oh ! tell me, am I dying ? 

Before I grow too weak 
There are within my weary soul 

Some words I fain would speak. 

My name is not Belle Henry — 

Ah ! no, a dearer name 
Was mine of early girlhood, 

Before I brought it shame. 
There is a lowly cottage, 

Where peaceful waters flow, 
Where wild birds by the window sing, 

And gentle flowers blow ; 
I can not say it was, my home, 

It seems so long ago. 



8 2 One More Unfortunate. 

My mother, dearest mother, 

I see her strangely now, 
Her sad, sad eyes and bending form, 

And care upon her brow. 
I see my poor old father, 

Who had no word of blame, 
Though upon his snow-white head 

I brought this burning shame. 

I am dying, father, dying 

In this dreary place alone ! 
No hand to smooth my pillow, 

No heart ache for my moan ! 
Oh ! well I now remember 

The snowy little bed, 
Where mother came to bless me 

In prayers so softly said; 
I see the apple blossoms, 

I hear the partridge call 
In the dewy light of morning, 

Peace brooding over all. 

I was fifteen, only fifteen, 

When the cruel tempter came ; 

I knew but how to love him, 
And he to bring me shame. 



One More Unfortunate. 

How my playmates all forsook me 

In the cold world's look of scorn, 

When in shameful sense of horror 
My little babe was born. 

Ah ! brief the joy he brought me, 

For joy it was to me 
To feel one cling so closely 

When all so hard could be. 
But he faded from my clasping, 

I laid him down to rest, 
His little hands soft folded 

Upon his little breast ; 
Shall I nevermore behold him, 

Ne'er clasp his form again, 
After all these years of anguish, 

And all this life of pain ? 

I fled one dreary midnight; 

Indeed I could not bear 
My father's silent sorrow, 

My mother's look of care ; 
And lower still and lower 

Passed on my weary feet, 
Until I stood an outcast 

Upon the darkling street. 



33 



One More Unfortunate. 

Oh! sickness, cold, and hunger, 

Oh ! degradation's ban ! 
Ye are soft and kinder-hearted 

Than heart of cruel man. 

My father oft has read us, 

While I knelt beside his knee, 

Of the woman and the Savior- 
No Savior came to me ; 

But scorn and bitter curses, 

And wrongs I may not tell, 

From they whose blighting shadows 
Upon my pathway fell. 

Oh ! father, dearest father, 

Oh ! mother, far away, 
You mourn your long-lost outcast — 

I am twenty-one to-day — 
Oh ! would that I were with you ! 

To have you near me now 
Would take this pain from out my heart, 

This anguish from my brow ; 
You would not spurn your darling, 

But clasp the wasted form 
Of the poor, weak, erring creature 

The world can onlv scorn. 



One More Unfortunate. 85 

My prayer is not unanswered, 

I feel a spirit sweet 
Steal o'er my soul, and ease my heart — 

I pray you let me sleep. 



86 A Pathetic Ballad of Chicago. 



fl Pathetic Ballad of Ghieago. 



With the accent heavy on the "go" 

T SING a breach of promise 
That happened long ago, 

Where the waters of the river 
Like roses seem to flow, 

Where Amanda Craig was trifled with, 
In the town of Chicago. 

There was an ancient duffer 

As rich as rich could be, 
Who loved the fair Amanda, 

"The inexpressive she," 

And he " loved her as his Jesus," 

And he spelled it with a "G." 



A Pathetic Ballad of Chicago. 87 

Amanda was no chicken, 

Though tender as a doe ; 
She lived in Cincinnati, 

Where the market is but slow ; 
So she listened to this duffer 

Of the wicked Chicago. 

His love it was so burning, 

It cooked him on the raw ; 
And so to cool his passion 

He went to Saginaw, 
And wrote her sundry letters, 

Ne'er dreaming of the law. 

The tender maid, Amanda, 

Had taught in common school ; 

So kept these loving letters 
A- written by this fool 

Who sought in breezy Saginaw 
His burning love to cool. 

Now, this illiterate villain 

Remained in Saginaw, 
Until his burning passion 

Was cool as any slaw; 
And then he went to buying lots 

And Amanda went to law. 



A Pathetic Ballad of Chicago. 

Oh ! blessed dispensation, 

The wicked one to tease, 
That cures up our affection 

And brings the heart its ease; 
Some find it sweet in heaven, 

Some in the Common Pleas. 

What did this cunning cheese-wax 
But shave his ancient pate ; 

Put on old clothes and bend his form, 
Take out the dentist plate, 

And wrinkle up his countenance, 
Great pity to create ? 

But the jury were all fathers, 

And some were husbands, too ; 

And the tricks of this deceiver 

They saw right through and through ; 

So they found a hundred thousand 
To make the cuss look blue. 

So all ye ancient lovers, 

A-roving to and fro, 
Now take from me a warning — 

Do n't let your passion flow, 
Or, if you breach a promise, 

Steer clear of Chicago. 



Ye Granger is Poking Round. 



Ye Granger is Poking Hound. 



Air: "The little pigs lay with their tails curled up." 

'T'HE little pigs lay with their tails curled tight, 

Tight, tight, tight ; 
The little pigs lay with their tails curled tight, 
A-snoring so sweet in the cloudy night, 
When they all got up in terrible fright, 

Plight, fright, plight, 
For ye Granger was looking round. 

These little pigs numbered just fifty-two, 

Two, two, two; 
These little pigs numbered just fifty-two ; 
They had very long tails, but ears were few, 
For their ears were gone to make a stew, 

Stew, stew, stew, 
As ye Granger went poking round. 



90 Ye Granger is Poking Round. 

There were Kelley and Dawes and fifty more, 

More, more, more; 
There were Kelley and Dawes and fifty more, 
That lay very low and let on to snore 
In innocent sleep, while the terrible bore, 

Bore, bore, bore, 
Of ye Granger went searching round. 

" My pigs were marked by Uncle Sam," 
Quoth ye Granger with a terrible damn; 
" I want them all for shoulder and ham, 

Ham, ham, ham," 
Quoth ye Granger while poking round. 

' ' Their bowels are good for sausage, too, 

Too, too, too • 
Their bowels are good for sausage, too ; 
Their little feet make an excellent stew. 
We will have sides and heads a few, 

Few, few, few," 
Quoth ye Granger a-poking round. 

"We are no pigs," squealed Kelley and Dawes, 
Dawes, Dawes, Dawes, 

"We are no pigs," squealed Kelley and Dawes; 

"We are good men who make good laws, 

And fight the fight of the negro cause, 
Cause, cause, cause, 

But ye Granger went poking round. 



Ye Granger is Poking Round. 9 1 

The moral I give of this sweet little song, 

Song, song, song, 
For all the pigs to the slaughter have gone ; 
To be safe in the House as ye go it strong ; 
Let your tails be short and your ears be long, 

Long, long, long, 
For ye Granger is poking round. 



92 Louise Kir by Piatt. 



Louise Kirby Piatt. 



T 



INSCRIPTION ON HER TOMB. 

O thy dear memory, darling, and my own, 
I build in grief this monumental stone ; 
All that it tells of life in death is thine, 
All that it means of death in life is mine; 
For the dread King, who tore our lives apart, 
Gave me the dead, to you the living part ; 
You, dying, live to find a life divine, 
I, living, die till death hath made me thine. 



To a Star. 93 



To a Sta& 



A MID the somber pines the. winds are sighing, 
While nature drops her livery of green ; 
About my home the maple leaves are dying, 
Ah me ! what spaces lie our lives between. 

Through all the hazy autumn hours I wander, 
Dreaming upon the mysteries of life ; 

With ear against the world's great heart you ponder 
In pain upon its glory and its strife. 

And when night comes, with clear unequaled splendor, 
I see the star-king from Eastern shadows start ; 

Far in the West shines one less bright, more tender — 
With even pace they keep their ways apart. 

One sinks, the other rises, and there lies on 
A separate fate ; for one, alas ! forlorn, 

Sinks slowly 'neath the murky, low horizon, 
While melts the other softly into morn. 



94 A Memory, 



R Iflenxwy. 



/"AN Narragansett's storm-beat sand 

We walked with slow, reluctant feet; 
I held enclasped her slender hand, 

With loved possession, deep and sweet. 
Out on the wave the wild foam swung, 
The circling sea-gulls upward sprung; 
While o'er the level sand the sea 
Came rolling soft and dreamily. 

The sunset's glow was on her cheek, 

Where love and heaven seemed to blend ; 
So full our hearts we could not speak, 

As summer's glories found an end. 
What tender lights seived through the mist, 
As waves and sunlight sparkling kissed, 
While o'er the sea, to setting sun, 
Swung thunder of the evening gun ! 



A Memory. 95 

Ah ! gentle form, what gift was thine 

To make the sky a deeper blue, 
To make the barren sands divine, 

And heaving sea a rosier hue ? 
'T was morn of life, and love's sweet glance 
Gave dreary years their one romance. 
When yielding form and tender eyes, 
Return to earth its paradise. 

On Narragansett's dreary sand, 

Now bent and old, alone I stray, 
Nor see the lights, nor waves, nor land, 

But one lone grave so far away. 
The storm-tossed foam and gulls distraught — . 
Return like dreams, with haunted thought — 
"No more, no more, oh! never more!" 
Moan the dark waves along the shore. 






g6 Death of Custer. 



Death of Gustetf. 



13 E hearty, my braves, for the hour draws nigh, 

When, in white man's blood, we wet our knives ; 
The light shall not dawn in the eastern sky 

Ere we torture the men and scalp their wives. 
There 's plunder on hand and wampum in store ; 

We're deadly as lightning, and still as the night; 
Your chief is here, and leads you once more : 

The hero am I of a hundred fights. 

The long haired chief, like a hunting hound, 

Followed our trail with his eagle eye ; 
The Indian sought and the Indian found : 

He came to kill, and remained to die. 
As a roaring wind he lead on his braves ; 

As snakes so still we awaited here ; 
They sought our scalps, they found their graves, 

They fought without hope, they fell without fear. 



Death of Custer. 97 

In a circle of fire we hemmed them 'round, 

His braves fell in heaps, but never he quailed ; 
Firm as a rock he held to his ground, 

Though the succor he sought in terror failed; 
They left him to die, as he lived, alone, 

Proud, fierce, and fleet, as a hawk on high. 
His life was his country's, his deeds all his own, 

He knew how to live, as he knew how to die. 



The Cowboy. 



The Comboy. 



TV/fY name it is Buck Stockton, 

It is a sound to fear ; 
The Ingun and the Greaser start, 

That dreaded name to hear ; 
For my finger 's on my trigger, 

And my hand is on my knife, 
And when Buck Stockton 's challenged, 

He answers with a life. 

I came from old Kantucky, 

Was born one blessed night 
Next a bar-room when a fight went on; 

So I was born to fight. 
The plains are my possessions, 

My saddle is my home, 
And it 's death to any human 

Who says that I can't roam. 



The Cowboy. 99 

My hoss is young Red Thomas — 

A blue grass hoss is he ; 
His sire won the Derby, 

And he can win for me. 
He makes a mile a minit, 

And he makes it every day; 
A flash, a shot, a death yell, 

And we are far away. 

The border's full of hell-hounds, 

There 's death at every turn; 
Who's right, who's wrong, who lives, who dies, 

Is never my concern. 
My hoss and my revolver 

Make my commission still, 
To keep the peace for Stockton, 

To keep the peace or kill. 



King Midas' s Touch. 



King flttidas's Tocteh. 



Jf ING Midas was a wondrous king, 

His like we'll ne'er behold; 
For what his kingship deigned to touch 

At once was turned to gold. 
But ah ! the days are changed, I trow, 

Since those of that old king; 
For touch a man with gold and now 

He '11 turn to any thing. 

The magi of the East, they say, 

Possessed a magic ring, 
That gave, when touched, all human sway, 

And every pleasant thing. 
The lobby at the Capital 

Has a better thing in store : 
Can see the magi's magic ring 

And go them forty more. 



King Midas^s Touch. 

There 's not a statesman in the land, 

Whate'er may be his swing, 
But knuckles to the dark command, 

He 's slave unto the ring. 
He looks the eagle, soaring grand, 

But, like a common kite, 
He's made of old newspapers, and 

A string controls his flight. 



The Kickers. 



The picket's, 



HPHERE was an ancient millionaire, 

Who was both old and green, 
Who loved a girl, with golden hair, 

A girl of sweet sixteen; 
When wed, alas ! the war began, 

That drove the groom to liquor, 
For the little wife had lovers, and 

This good man died a kicker. 

There was a mighty Senatair, 

A boss both strong and high, 
Who wore a lock of curly hair, 

That took the pop'lar eye ; 
One day he did resign in spleen, 

And then began to bicker, 
But now among the herd he 's seen, 

A most uncommon kicker. 



The Kickers. 103 

We know a great divine, who, dear 

To the commercial mind, 
Drew crowds immense, each day, to hear 

His theologic find; 
Alas ! he once stepped down and out 

With Satan for a dicker, 
Since then he sadly goes about, 

A discontented kicker. 

So life has many a crown and cross 

Full many a joy and sorrow, 
And if to-day you feel a loss, 

You '11 find success to-morrow ; 
But whether it be joy or woe, 

Or, be it slow or quicker, 
Never among the people go, 

And show yourself a kicker. 



104 ^ ma y n °t Meet Again. 



We nay not fleet Again. 



"1 1 7E may not meet again, 

For earth has many ways, 
And lips in other lands, 

Are ringing in thy praise. 

But memory o'er me lies, 

As a mantle in my sleep ; 

And olden hopes will rise, 

Like spirits from the deep. 

We may not meet again, 

As once we fondly met ; 

All hope of that were vain, 
But vainer to forget. 

For not a flower that flings, 
Its fragrance on the lea, 

Or not a bird that sings, 

But breathes, lost one, for thee. 



We may not Meet Again. 105 

We may not meet again, 

But from around my heart, 
The light of other days, 

Alas, will not depart ; 

But like some lonely star, 

That lights the deep, blue sea, 

Thy beauty shines upon 
The wave of memory. 



i o6 A Judicial Character. 



B Judicial GhatfaeteF. 



CEE where our pig-eyed pettifogger sits, 

A man by court' sy and a Judge by fits ; 
How like an owl, upon the bench he blinks, 
Striving in vain to make us think he thinks. 
On legal points to shock our virile sense 
He fumbles vainly in his impotence ; 
So steeped in sin, yet innocent of law, 
He deals out judgment like a tailed Beshaw. 
In Goldsmith's time there once a wonder grew 
How one small head could carry all it knew ; 
But here 't is changed, we now a wonder find 
To see much carcass with so little mind. 
Clad in a pious garb, to church he hies, 
And in the presence of his Maker lies. 
Mean hypocrite and meaner demagogue, . 
He holds combined the worst of cat and hog; 
Coarse as the one and as the other sly, 
He walks the earth — an animated lie j 
But, when he rides, great Scott ! what lies 
His horse and carriage forthwith advertise ; 
A home-stead judgment is the steed he drives. 



Morning Prayer. 107 



doming Prayer 



HPO Thee, great God, I humbly pray 

For grace and light and will and power 
To do each hour of every day 
That 't is Thy will on earth to stay, 
The duties of the day and hour. 

I know not, Lord — Thou knowest all, 

When I shall pass through death's dark river, 

And what to me shall then befall; 

Weak, ignorant, and blind, I call 

To Thee, of all good gifts the giver. 

That Thou, my Father, just and true, 

When death all ties to earth shall sever, 

Thou who hast led me hitherto, 

With joys and blessings ever new, 

Will be my trust and hope forever. 



io8 To Die Alone, 



To Die fllooe. 



'T^O live in crowds, yet doomed to die alone; 
What sudden sev'rance in the fateful call, 

When the scared face is turned unto the wall 
To deal with death. No agonized caress nor moan 
Can aught avail. The feeble hands unclasp ; 
' Forth from the windings of our sunlit shore 

Alone the soul departs forevermore, 
And echoless in space our cries are cast. 
The birds sing on, the tender flowers bloom, 

While fading memory finds in time a calm; 
Dust gathers slowly on the sculptured tomb, 

And cold oblivion holds its healing balm. 
If loved and lost, ah, me ! live yet to bless. 
Why this relief in dull forgetfulness ? 



Change, 109 



Ghange. 

One after one we see our friends depart, 

As stars of midnight melt unto the morn; 
From sweetest dreams awakes the weary heart, 

To throb, like Ruth's, "amid the alien corn," 
When, sick for home, she sighed, so dreary and forlorn. 

Yet not of thee I grieve, Oh ! mighty Death — ■ 
Thy ways are pleasant ways, thy paths are peace, 

As flowers will fall in Autumn's quiet breath, 
At thy still coming, all our troubles cease — 

But of the death called Change — the living death, 
That mocks us with a semblance falsely shown, 

The ghost of what it was without the breath 
That animates the soul, the altered tone 
And cold, averted look that leaves us so alone. 



Tecumseh. 



Tecumseh. 



T T E lived as lives the warrior, 
In heavy stream of fight, 
He died as dies the chieftain 

Ere came the cry of flight ; 
He closed his eyes forever 

On his nation's endless night. 

No marble gleams above him, 
No people for him weeps ; 

The tears are dews of autumn, 

The sighs the wind that sweeps 

Above the lone cell narrow, 

Where the deathless hero sleeps. 

Ah ! vain the brave endeavor, 
Ah ! vain the earnest cry, 

The many sleep on ever, 

The few march out to die, 

While finds heroic failure 
Its record in a sigh. 



Oh, Si?ig no More. 



Oh, Sing no flftope. 



/^H ! sing no more that song so glad, 

Wake not its melody, 
For now, alas, the strain is sad 

That once was sweet to me ; 
For she whose tender loving hands 

First smote its magic chord 
In heaven amid the sinless stands 

To sing before her Lord. 

Ah ! bitter tears of vanished years, 

Ah ! heart benumbed by pain, 
How quickening anguish reappears 

To live along that strain; 
The dull, dead longing comes apace, 

That years in death has lain, 
To look upon that loving face 

I ne'er may see again. 



Oh, Sing no More. 

Forgive me, love, if my weak plaint 

A shadow o'er thee shed; 
Ah ! more than wife, nor less than saint, 

We mourn our common dead. 
The sweet romance of sunny birth 

Has faded from my brow, 
For that which was but love on earth 

Is our religion now. 



Death. 113 



Death. 

11 THY should I shrink from thy dark presence, Death, 
So near me now when fleeting years are brief; 

Soon thy chill touch shall be my sole relief 
From racking pains, dimmed eyes and gasping breath. 

To die from earth and never feel agen 

The kiss of love nor kindly grasp of men 
I would not fear if from those fleshless lips 

Aught I could learn of that dim life to come ; 
Yet light in night has but a hushed eclipse, 

The grave is silent and its master dumb. 
Startled I gaze into the starlit sky, 

When God recedes from thought in boundless space, 

And faith grows faint in His redeeming grace — 
^Oh, Holy Mother ! hear my helpless cry ! 



LOST AND WON. 



CHARACTERS OF PLAY. 

Hon. Hamilton Barr, Virginia gentleman. 
Younger Barr, his son. 

Captain, after, Colonel, Lacy, U. S. Army of Volunteers. 
Amos Adze, private, after, cabinet maker. 
Buckthorn, overseer, after, detective. 
Old Schack, colored house servant. 
Old Jeff, colored " Prophet of de Lawd." 
Lord Tomnoddy, English attraction. 
Fitzpoodle, American attraction. 
Sergeant Bang, servant to Lacy. 
Bessie Barr, daughter of Hamilton Barr. 
Aunt Hester Barr, sister of Hamilton Barr. 
Helen Dash, after, Mrs. Col. Lacy. 
Slaves, soldiers, ladies and gentlemen, police, and creditors. 



PROLOGUE. 

Scene: On the James. Distant view of river and moun- 
tains beyond. To the right an old family tomb with " Barr " 
above the entrance. Time, sunset. As the sun goes down 
camp fires appear on mountains, and through entire scene distant 
roar o* artillery heard. 

Curtain discovers old Schack, Jeff, and slaves, men and 
women, looking off toward mountains. 

First Slave. Dye 's comin', shu enuff. An' de Lawd 
knows dye 's thousands and thousands ob 'em. 

("5) 



n6 Lost and Won. 

Second Slave. An' dey 's got big guns, too. Jis you 
listen. Aint it awful ? 

First Slave. Dey'l hab use foh 'em. Young Mass' 
Barr say dat one Souvner is good foh tree dem Yankees. 

Second Slave. Oh, shaw, dat 's talk. Aint dey come, 
and don't they keep a' coming ? Where's yer Souvner 
as keep 'em back ? You talks foolishness wid yer young 
Mass' Barr. 

First Slave. Don't know. Hope's its foolishness. 
When Yanks come, de nigger go. Mind dat. He draps 
de hoe handle like a hot poker, an' has his freedom on 
de spot. De Lawd knows I want dem Yankees. But 
I'se afraid, I is. 

Second Slave. The Lawd's on dar side, and when de 
Lawd takes side, as ole Mass' Barr says, dar 's a majority. 
I stand by de Lawd and de Yanks, I do. 

Schack. An' I 's ashamed ob you. You here 'uns 
has been a eating' of Massa's bread and wearin' de Massa's 
clos, you sleeps under de roof he gibs you, an' when 
you 's sick, he doctors you, and when you dies he buries 
you. 

Second Slave. An' when we do n't work he whips us, 
an' when he wants de money, he sells us to de plantations 
down Souf. 

Schack. Shut you lyin' mouf. Dar aint bin a darkey 
sole off dis place for a hundred year. 



Lost and Won. 117 

Second Slave. Dat 's so. Ole Mass' Barr mity good, 
but you jis wait till young Mass' Barr comes in, honey; 
den you look out. Dey do say ole Mass' Barr done sole 
us aready. 

Schack. Dey says lies, you ornary nigger. Ole Mass' 
Barr neber do sick thing. He 's mity kind to his niggers. 

Second Slave. Yas, an' he lets dat oberseer, Buck- 
thorn, work us, and Mass' Buckthorn mighty handy wid 
de whip. 

Schack. 'Cause yer so ornary. Look at Mass' Harris' 
niggers. Dey do moh work in a day dan you git off in a 
mounf. It jes makes me sick, it does. You 'uns got no 
t'anks in ye. 

Second Slave. Dat 's all high talk in ye, ole Shack. 
You'se a house nigger. You 's got de best ob everyting. 
You wears de best ob clos; you eats ob de fat ob de Ian'. 
We 'uns, field niggers, hab de rags, de con pone, an' de 
lash. Oh, you go 'long. I 'se foh de Yanks, all de time. 

Schack. Heah him, heah him. Oh, you ornary cuss. 
De Mass' ought to take dat out' you black hide wid de 
whip. 

Second Slave. Got to cotch me fust. Onct de nigger 
went to de Norf ; now de Norf comes to de nigger. Onct 
de nigger run; now de Massa run. Yes, sah, dat's de 
fact. 

Schack. Dis talk is disgustin'. You poh debil, you 



n8 Lost and Won. 

do n't know what you talk 'bout. You wants to leab your 
kind massa an' your warm home for de cold Norf, yer 
does, wha' de snow an' ice makes nigger ob no 'count. 
I 'se bin in de Bah family — de richest an' grandist family 
in all Virginy — man an' boy, nigh onto seventy year, an' 
please de Lawd, I means to die under dar roof. Ef de 
wus' comes to de wus', I shahed dar prosperity an' I'll 
shah dar troubles. 

Second Slave. Aint much left to shah, Schack, wid 
'em. You 's ole, Schack. 

Schack. Yes, I 'se ole, an' I 'se grown ole in dar ser- 
vice. Mass' Barr an' me played togedder as chilern. 
My mudder was his mammy, an' I 'se too ole to turn 
ornary and bite de han' dat git me bread. I 's sick ob 
you, you poh trash. 

Second Slave. Dem hard words don't hurt. Thar's 
ole Doctah JerT. Stan' back, niggers, ole Jeff sees de 
Lawd. (Old Jeff comes solemnly forward and gazes off.) 
Jis ye look at him. Get yer eye on de colored prophet 
ob de Lawd. What is it, Jeff? 

Jeff. {After a roar of artillery in the distance.) It's de 
Lawd proclaiming freedom to de oppressed on de moun- 
tains an' in de valleys. He says in thunder: "No moh 
chains and whips foh his chilern." De poh slave fled 
from de oppressor. He followed de norf star by night 
an' hid in the swamps by day • now de norf star comes to 




Lost and Won. 119 

de poh slave in de day time, and de thunder ob de Lawd 
says: "Bewah!" (Artillery as before.*) (Sings): 

Dah 's light upon de mountains — 

Sing, Oh, de Jubalee; 
'T is de coming ob de Savior 

To set de darkey free. 
He takes burden from de sholdah 

An' de shackles from de nan'; 
Dah 's light upon de mountains 

An' freedom in de Ian'. 

Chorus — Sing, Oh, sing de Jubilee. 

Oh, hurry up good Savior and set 
de darkey free. 

( Union soldiers in the distance sing a verse from John 
Brown.) 

(Jeff sings): 

Oh, harken to de voices 

A 'ringing in de a'. 
'T is de comin' ob our Moses, 

An' he tells 'em to bewah. 
We has waited long in sorrow, 

We 's toilin' in de night; 
But do n't you see de morrow 
A breakin' into light ? 

(Chorus as before, answered by Union soldiers. After, a 
negro dance). 

Enter Buckthorn, cracking a whip. 
Buckthorn. You black devils, stop this racket. Slope, 
I say. (Cutting among them.) The Yanks may set you 



120 Lost and Won. 

free ; but, until they do, I 'm master here. Get to your 
quarters, you lazy snakes. 

Old Jeff. But, Massa Buckthorn — 

Buckthorn. Not another word, or I '11 break your 
damned infernal jaw. Off, I say. (Drives them off with 
whip. Looks off.) The Yanks have covered the river in 
spite of Colonel Randolph's guns. They'll soon be here, 
and then good-bye Barr Hall and my pleasant business of 
whaling niggers. I wonder what the old man is about; 
been busy as the devil all night with that English agent 
and his lawyer. Thought at first 't was the police after 
me, and so I watched. Saw the Bull give the old man a 
pile that he handled as if it was very precious. What is 
he up to? Hello, here he's coming with his son and 
that pretty daughter. I'll watch a little longer. (Steps 
behind tomb.) 

Enter Hamilton Barr, Bessie, and Young Barr, the 
latter in new Confederate uniform. 

Elder Barr. I have t brought you here, my children, 
that you may be parties to and witnesses of a business of 
vital importance to us all. It can not be delayed. The 
Union army approaches, and you, my son, leave us to- 
night. 

Young Barr. Yes, my father. I must hasten to re- 
port to my General and with the unpleasant news that 



Lost and Won. 121 

the Yankees have forced the passage of the river. They 
will soon be here. What will you and Bessie do, 
father ? 

Elder Barr. Remain quietly at home. I suppose 
the Federal General in command is a gentleman and will 
give us protection. But time presses and I have a matter 
of vital importance to communicate. This war, appealed 
to by the South, will end disastrously to the South. 

Young Barr and Bessie. Oh, father ! 

Elder Barr. I know it is hard to say, but my head 
is not disturbed by prejudice nor passion. The South 
will hurl itself with frantic courage against the inevitable. 
It calls a wrong its right and attempts to fling back the 
civilization of a thousand years. Sustaining this wrong 
we have weakened in peace, while the North grew strong. 
We appeal to arms with an enemy we have fattened, 
while we lost strength, and in this war against civilization, 
humanity and brute force, the South will go down with 
nought left in memory of a lost cause but the high 
courage of a desperate one. 

Young Barr. Why then should I go out to battle for 
a wrong and a defeat ? 

Elder Barr. Because you are a Virginian, and when 
in the clash of arms the Old Dominion calls to her sons, 
they can not pause to question right or wrong. 

Young Barr. I can not believe the courage and de- 



122 Lost and Won. 

votion of such sons, in repelling an invasion of hired ruf- 
fians, will go for naught. God is with us. 

Elder Bern: We have slept away our strength. My 
son, have you thought that the uniform you wear was 
manufactured in Massachusetts? Your pistols came from 
Connecticut. Your very boots were made in some New 
England village. The sword you are to wear, and be 
proud of, was wrought in New Jersey, and, Oh, my son, 
should you fall, your coffin itself, if you are so fortunate 
as to have one, will be from Pennsylvania. While we 
have slept in peace on our plantations, supported by a 
remnant of barbarism, called slavery, the world has swept 
by us, and now we waken in wrath to offer our naked 
breasts to inevitable ruin. 

Young Barr. And we will make the march of the 
invaders a highway of human bones, and about every 
bier of a Southern soldier pile a monument of dead. 

Elder Barr. Go, my son. To do your duty you 
have given bond in being a Barr and a Virginian. May 
Heaven protect you. Before we part let me say to you 
that, believing this cruel war will end in ruin to our side, 
I have converted all my property into money and English 
securities. It was my intent to go with sister to Europe 
with them, but the lines have closed in on us so suddenly 
that I can not hope to escape at present. But I have 
thought of a safe deposit where they can remain until 



Lost and Won. 123 

opportunity for removal offers. In this tomb of our 
fathers I will conceal this wealth. Should aught unfor- 
tunate occur to me, it is well you should know the place 
where it is to be found. {Unlocks door of tomb; enters 
with Young Barr and Bessie. Buckthorn steals in and 
looks at them. 

Buckthorn. So, so, hiding his money. I have it. I 
see my way out. Now for a Yank to help me move the 
deposits. (Exit.) 

Re-enter from tomb Elder and Younger Barr and Bessie. 

Elder Barr. There, I feel relieved. We can now go 
our several ways in safety, for no one will think to dis- 
turb the dead, and, if so, the treasure will yet remain 
concealed. (Enter Amos Adze, prepared for travel.) 
What, Amos, you prepared to leave ? 

Amos. Yes, sir, with a heavy heart. The hour is on 
us when I must take sides in this awful conflict, or, like 
a coward, get beyond its hearing. 

Young Barr. And, my adopted brother, you go with 
me to repel these invaders ? 

Amos. No, my brother. I have thought of all you 
urged, and the same motive that animates you influences 
me. You take up arms for your State, and the same duty 
calls me to mine in the cold North. I am, you know, a 
native of New England; I first drew breath in the moun- 



124 Z<v/ and Won. 

tains of Vermont. They are all my kin. I am not 
native here. 

Young Barr. Nor a true son by adoption! Your 
State is not invaded. 

Amos. Pardon me. When Virginia strikes at the 
Union she invades Vermont. The flag we follow, that you 
would trail in the dust, is the flag given us by our fathers, 
and, like the broad heavens above, covers all the land. 

Young Barr. Ingrate ! Is this the return made us 
for the nurture and care given you from your childhood ? 
A beggar, dependent on my father's bounty ! 

Bessie. Oh, Charles ! 

Elder Barr. For shame, my son ! Recorded obliga- 
tions cease to be gifts. The truly noble take no account 
of favors bestowed. 

Young Barr. But this is life or death. The hired 
ruffians invade our soil, and seek over our bodies to 
desolate our homes, and an adopted son — 

Elder Barr. Is not to be judged by us. There is a 
higher tribunal to which we must appeal. Let such judg- 
ment condemn, and condemn it will one side or the other. 

Young Barr. I forgot your presence, sir, and ask 
your pardon. 

Elder Barr. You forgot yourself. Under no circum- 
stances can a true Virginian cease to be a gentleman. 
This lad is yet under our roof and shares our salt. 



Lost and Won. 125 

Young Barr. Your hand, Amos. We have not yet 
grasped the weapon that is to shed our blood. Forgive me. 

Amos. With all my heart. 

Young Barr. Come, sister, my sword. 

Bessie. I will buckle it on. Oh, my brother, may 
Heaven send you safe again to us. ( Weeps). 

Young Barr. I go with all my heart, an officer to 
offer my life for a holy cause. 

Amos. And I as a private to sustain the flag your 
fathers, as well as mine, gave us as a sacred trust. 

Bessie. I have no sword for you, Amos. 

Amos. I must win before I can wear one. Farewell. 
{To elder Barr.) I lack the words to fit the feelings of 
my heart for all you have done for the widow and orphan. 

Elder Barr. I but did my duty, boy, no more. Go 
you to yours by such lights as to you seem best. Fare- 
well, my sons. (Exit Young Barr to right ; Amos to left.) 
A cruel war that sends thus into hostile ranks two brothers 
of one race, if not one blood ! Come, my child, the old 
and the young, feeble alike, are left to suffer in their 
lonely homes, there to await the desolation that comes of 
death. (Exeunt.) 

Enter Buckthorn, followed by Captain Lacy. 
Lacy. Come, now, my man. I go no further. What 
is it you have to communicate ? 



126 Lost and Won. 

Buckthorn. No need to travel off this spot. See that 
old tomb ? 

Lacy. Quite plainly. 

Buckthorn. The rebel who owns, or did own, all this 
part of the country, has turned his lands, niggers, and 
cotton into cash, and hid it there. 

Lacy. You infernal scoundrel, would you have me 
rob the grave? 

Buckthorn. Hard words, Captain, and a little incon- 
sistent. You came out to kill and hesitate to plunder. 
You will leave a million to help on the rebellion. 

Lacy. True enough. It is my duty to seize this 
wealth and turn it over to the government. 

Buckthorn. Why, certainly. Seize first and turn it 
over afterward. I '11 assist in this good work. {Wrenches 
open door with bar, and both enter.) 

Enter Helen. 
Helen. What can my handsome Captain be doing in 
that old tomb? (Looks in.) He and another are digging. 
What can it mean? They come. {Hides behind tomb.) 

Re-enter Lacy and Buckthorn. 
Buckthorn. Your troops approach. I must not be 
caught here. Farewell, most noble Captain. We will 
meet again when you have turned that million over to the 



Lost and Won. 127 

government. Do n't fail in that, the government is so 
poor. (Exit hurriedly, stooping as if to avoid observation.) 

Lacy. (Looking at securities). A million, he said, and 
I hold it in my hand. May make it mine. The gathered 
accumulation of many toilsome lives, and mine by one 
easy act. I hold ease, power, luxury in my hand and am 
lifted from mean privation. Shall I? (Helen, unseen by 
him, touches his arm. He starts.) Damnation ! how you 
startled me ! 

Helen. A soldier, and afraid ? 

+Lacy. What are you doing here ? 

Helen. I followed you to the camp ; I followed you 
to the grave. There's devotion for you ! 

Lacy. Your following is a bore. I am being laughed 
at. I am weary of it. I shall make complaint and have 
you sent back through our lines. 

Helen. No! you will not, my handsome Captain. 
When you return me through the lines, you turn that 
million over to the government. Make yourself mine 
and you make that million your own. It is my marriage 
portion. 

Lacy. You tempt me to crime. 

Helen. As you have tempted me. Turn about is fair 
play. 

(A roll of drums is heard, with roar of artillery. A 
bright light ilhunines the stage. ) 



128 Lost and Won. 

Lacy. The rebels burn their stores and are in full 
retreat. Our troopers advance. Gome, girl. (Exeunt.) 

The tramp of soldiers heard. A band plays the ' ' Red, 
White, and Blue y Union forces march in upon the left, as 
a crowd of slaves, men, women, and children, rush in from 
the right and fall upon their knees. Tableau. 

Curtain. 



ACT I. 

Scene: Garden to a cottage. Hudson and Palisades seen in the 
distance. Cottage on the right and a few rustic seats and flowers. 
Old Schack discovered watering flowers. 

Schack. Well, well, dis am a comin' down, shu 'nurT. 
De Bah family had a hundred niggers, chariots and 
coaches, wuk hosses and race hosses ; 'bakker in Virginy, 
cotton at the Souf ; a house of fifty rooms and barrels ob 
money. All come to lib in a mean house like dat an' 
amost dependin' on Schack for dar daily bread. Foh de 
Lawd, I doan know how long dis thing goin' to las', I 
doan. Dese heah credtors gittin' thicker an' thicker ebery 
day. Heah is de wus ob 'em all. He 's de butcher's 
agent. Now, ole Schack, brace up. Dis a credtor, dat 
zasperates de cuss. 

Enter Skinbill. 

Skinbill. I say, old powder-puff, where is the boss ? 



Lost and Won. 129 

Schack. ( With dignity). Who you designate as pow- 
dah puff? Who you terms boss, eh ? 

Skinbill. My eyes ! Aint old Africa dignified ? Why, 
he carries more dignity to the square inch than an obe- 
lisk. 

Schack. An' you carries moh dam brass 'an ed make 
a copper kettle. You is one ob 'em poh debils as is hired 
to be disagreeable ca'se you is so ornary. 

Skinbill. Well, I aint going to stand here all day 
swapping sass with a nigger. I want to see this old Vir- 
ginia gent. Got to have the money or know why. 
There 's the bill and if it aint paid before night, got to sue. 
We do n't furnish meat for poor old Virginia gentlemen to 
live on without paying for it, we do n't. 

Schack. You do n't ? Nobody 'specks you ebber did. 
I'd like to see how you lib. 

Skinbill. I put up at the Brunswick, old coon. Just 
drop in and I will present you to Mrs. Skinbill and the 
little Skinbills, and we '11 have a champagne lunch. There 
comes another bill on legs. 

Enter Grocer. 

Grocer. I say, uncle, can't you do something for us 
to-day ? Sorry to trouble you. 

Schack. No trouble in de wor', sah. I was jus' makin' 
de necessary preparation foh dat, sah. 

Skinbill. Hear him. For cool impudence and dignity 



130 Lost and Won. 

I'd back this old darkey against an alderman. Hello, 
here comes more of us. As Booth says, Come like 
shadows and so depart, without a shadow of settlement. 
{Enter creditors.) Welcome, gentlemen. Room for all. 
The more the merrier. 

First Creditor. I want to see Mr. Barr, and I haint 
much time to lose, either. 

Schack. Berry sorry, sah ; berry sorry, sah, but Mas' 
Bah left on de early train foh de city on bizness ob great 
importance. 

Second Creditor. Believe your lyin', old man. I was at 
the depot at the early train and I did n't see ' ' Mass' 
Bah," as you call him. 

Third Creditor. Well, I 've been put off long enough. 
You have promised me every day now for a month, and 
making that bill bigger and bigger all the time. 

First Creditor. Let 's raid the house and smoke out 
the old gent. {They make a move.) 

Schack. Genelmen ! genelmen ! Doan want to git you 
into any trubble, but doan you go ni dat house. 

First Creditor. Why not ? 

Schack. Why, did n't heah de news ? Did n't ye heak 
de awful calamity dat come on dat house ? 

Second Creditor. No, what is it ? Old boss dead ? 

Schack. No, sah ; no, sah ; dat 's not it. Its wus ! 
Why, my younges' chile has taken down wid de small-pox. 



Lost and Won. 13c 

I 'specs de amb'lance ebery minit. All de family has 

gone to de city. 

Skinbi'll. Holy Moses ! And I 've been here breathin' 

this old rascal for ten minutes. I feel as if I was breakin' 

out this minute. (Moving off.) 

First Creditor. Better get out of this! (Ait move.) 
Schack. Doan be skarred ; I 'se had it afore, genel- 

men. Genelmen, I want dose bills. Anyway shake 

hands. 

Second Creditor. Oh, go to the devil. (All hut ry off. ) 
Schack. Yah, Yah, but dey is skarred. Well, well, 

dat angel Gabriel must be kept purty bizzy puttin' down 

my lies — an' all tole foh de ole massa. 

Enter Amos Adze with lady's work-table. 

Amos. Good morning, uncle Schack. How are the 
folks to-day ? 

Schack. Dey's purty well, Mr. Amos, purty well, 
considerin' I introduced de small-pox in de house dis 
mornin'. 

Amos. What do you mean ? Small-pox ? 

Schack. Yah, yah. I jis did. Now, Mr. Amos, I 
puts it to you, aint de small-pox a legal offense agin credi- 
tors ? You can 't take hot water to 'em ; nor set de dog 
on 'em ; nor shoot 'em wid a shot-gun, but you can say 
small-pox at 'em an' see 'em run. Yah ! yah ! 



13 2 Lost and Won. 

Amos. I see. Yes, I met them, looking decidedly 
alarmed and one warned me to take care. But, uncle 
Schack, this will have unpleasant consequences. The 
Board of Health will be after you, and every one in the 
village will avoid you. 

Schack. Oh, shaw ! I jis tells it was a false 'larm. 
Dat it was only vary-lawd. You see ? 

Amos. But are you so pursued by creditors? 

Schack. I is. But, bress your soul, I stand 'tween de 
family and dis gang and I does it so de family doan know. 
De ole massa and Miss Bessie 'd go destrackted if dey 
knew. 

Amos. Poor old man, and has it come to this ? And 
does he know nothing of these troubles ? 

Schack. Well, he has to know sometimes. You see, 
dar is a bill gits in in spite of me. An' den he talks about 
a 'mittance from Washington. I doan know what he 
means about dat sort ob property. I looks mity close 
'bout his desk and in his clos' when I brush 'em, an' doan 
see no 'mittance about. I doan b'lieve, Amos, dat de ole 
man has a 'mittance. He rather gittin' loose about de 
head. 

Amos. You mean a remittance, uncle Schack. He 
has that monthly, I know, but that wont go very far to- 
ward keeping a family. How do you manage, I can not 
make out ? 



Lost and Won. 133 

Schack. Well, you see, Mr. Amos, de Lawd is good 
to the poh, and he has put our lines in among de chickens 
an' de eggs of rich enemies. I has n't lived in ole Virginny 
an' not know how to charm de chickens an' de eggs into 
the poh man's pot. 

Amos. Good Lord, uncle Schack, you are not stealing 
chickens and eggs for the Barr family ? 

Schack. Mr. Amos, I 'se a reasonin' like. I larned 
from de pulpit dat when de chilern of Isrel was driven 
from de house ob bondage dey done took wid 'em all de 
chickens an' de pots an' pans ob de 'pressor. An' de 
preacher, Mass' Beecher, tells us dat de Lawd approved 
of dem proceeduns. 

Amos. {Laughing.) I hardly think the cases parallel. 

Schack. Doan know 'bout de parlels, but dem Yanks 
cumd down in our Ian' and jis gobbles up ebery ting. 
Why, bress you soul, honey, but de pigs, chickens an' de 
turkeys, dey go like snow afore de sun, and dey takes all 
Mass' Bah's money hid in de ole toomb, an' we can 't 
'talliate. 

Amos. All very well to your mind, uncle Schack, but 
you better not let Mr. Barr know. 

Schack. Lor' look-ye-heah ! I want born dis mornin'! 
But I say, Mass' Amos, could you help us a little, nanshally, 
you know ? 

Amos. I fear not, uncle Schack. I wish I could. 



134 Lost and Won. 

But it is as much as I can do to live. When I came out 
of the war on one leg I had to look about for a living. 
Find some trade good for wages. I had to steal it. 

Schack, Steal it, Mr. Amos ? 

Amos. Yes, Schack. These labor unions are close 
corporations and seek to keep up prices by restricting pro- 
duction. So only a favored few are permitted to learn a 
trade. 

Schack. Doan clarly see. 

Amos. Well, labor is combined against capital, as 
capital is combined against labor. Only labor has seized 
on one of the worst features of capital organization — that 
of forcing a limited supply. 

Schack. Doan understan' dem language. But it do 
seem to dis chile dat you white folks dat was so ready to 
fight for de darkey, might fight foh yourselves. 

Amos. Not much good in fighting, Schack. In all 
the century long war for human rights the people lose 
through fraud all that they gain through violence. 

Schack. Jis, so ; jis, so ! I has obsarved de same. 
But tell us how you steal yer trade. 

Amos. I found an old bullet-headed German willing 
to teach me cabinet making. It was a hard struggle, but 
I have it at last, and, thank Heaven, I am one of the 
union, and now we are all on a strike. Uncle Schack, 



Lost and Won. 135 

will you place this little workstand in the room of Miss 
Bessie ? God bless her. 

Schack. To be shu; to be shu. {Exit with table. ~) 

Enter Aunt Hester as from a walk. 

Aunt Hester. Bless me, but I am tired. Walked 
from Fourteenth street to Central depot because I had n't 
money enough to pay car fare. Ah, Amos, you here ? 

Amos. Yes, Miss Hester. I am but now up from the 
city. Missed each other by a train. 

Aunt Hester. Dear me, I am sorry. It would have 
been pleasant to have had your company. It is very un- 
pleasant, Amos, to be so restricted in money matters as we 
are. When I think of our profusion in the past and our 
embarrassment now, I can scarcely believe we are the 
same people. 

Amos. I can testify to the difference, Miss Hester. 

Aunt Hester. We had such abundance, so much com- 
pany, horses, carriages and servants without limit. I was 
a giddy young thing when brother Barr entertained at his 
house the entire legislature. Dear me, dear me, how long 
ago that seems ! There was an elderly gentleman, Senator 
Shinglepeg, a man of large property, an old bachelor. 
You do n't remember, Amos ? 

Amos. No, Miss Hester. 

Aunt Hester. No. Why how could you ? You wern't 



136 Lost and Won. 

born then. Well, the senator fell desperately in love with 
me, and asked brother Barr for my hand. Well, well, I 
could n't abide him. He had a blue tooth and a cast in 
his eye — not much in the way of looks — but large property. 
Amos, I am sorry at times that I didn't shut my eye to his 
blue tooth and irregular eye. When I see the trouble we 
are in I am real sorry I did n't shut my giddy eyes to his 
two defects, for, in the main, barring the tooth and the 
eye, he was a good man and had a large property. 

Amos. What became of him ? 

Aunt Hester. Why he just went on until he died. But 
a curious thing occurred one day after I refused him. My 
refusal seemed to have soured his temper, and, in an alterca- 
tion with the sheriff, he used some inflammatory language, 
and the sheriff struck him on the head with a poker. 
That blow knocked out the blue tooth and straightened 
his eye. 

Amos. You should have accepted him then. 

Aunt Hester. He did n't propose again. I do n't be- 
lieve I would have had him anyway. He had n't much 
hair, but a large property. I was a gay, giddy young 
thing then, Amos. You would scarcely believe it now, 
would you, Amos ? 

Amos. I do n't know about being gay and giddy, but 
my earliest recollections are hearing of the beauty, accom- 
plishments and fascinations of Miss Hester Barr. 



Lost and Won. 137 

Aunt Hester. Dear me, dear me ! Now, Amos, that 
is very kind of you. Now, I venture to say that, looking 
at my old face, you would n't believe such stories. Now, 
would you ? 

Enter Sergeant Bangs. 

Bangs. {Saluting.') Madam. 

Aunt Hester. Same to you, Sir. 

Bangs. Colonel Lacy's compliments. Will be pleased 
to call on Miss Barr this morning, if agreeable. 

Aunt Hester. Say, Sergeant, Miss Barr will be pleased 
to see the Colonel. {Sergeant salutes and exits.) Amos, 
that absurd creature is no better than a stick. But I must 
inform Bessie. {Enters house.") 

Amos. Bessie, I love the ground she walks on; the 
flower she looks at ; the very air she breathes. There 's 
music in the rustle of her dress and heaven in her voice, 
and I dare not breathe to her a word of this. A poor 
devil of a cripple; a mechanic, looking up to such an 
angel. 

Enter Bessie from house. 

Bessie. Why, Amos, I am so glad to see you ! I 
hurried out to thank you for that beautiful little workstand. 
But you must not do those things, Amos. It is not right. 
I fear you can not afford it. 

Amos. {Aside.) She little dreams that I lived on one 
meal a day that I might make it. {Alotid.) Oh, that's 



138 Lost and Won. 

nothing, Miss Bessie. Would to God I could do more— 
to show my gratitude to your father. 

Bessie. You exaggerate that service, Amos, and I 
can not permit you to be impoverishing yourself for our 
benefit. I am so sorry, Amos (hesitating) — 

Amos. For what, Miss Bessie ? 

Bessie. That you selected such a hard calling through 
which to make a living. Why could n't you take a pro- 
fession — say a lawyer or doctor. You are a man of edu- 
cation — a gentleman, Amos. Why, we looked on you as 
one of the family. 

Amos. I had no choice. A profession means years of 
study and years of waiting. I had to find immediate sup- 
port not only for myself but one I loved. 

Bessie. You love some one, Amos? Tell me all 
about it. 

Amos. There is not much to tell and I lack the words 
to tell it. I worship one so far above me that it is profana- 
tion to breathe her name in that connection. Oh, Bessie 
I have no hope but in her heart ; no heaven but her love. 
And, yet, I dare not tell her this. 

Bessie. Why not, Amos ? There is no altar, however 
lowly, that may not send its incense up and be grateful, 
let the deity be ever so high. 

Amos. That is all very well in poetry. But, when it 



Lost and Won. 



*39 



comes to real life, the love of a crippled mechanic offered 
to a lady is an insult. 

Bessie. In old Virginia that was the condition. But 
here, Amos, where it is claimed that all honest labor is 
honorable, it must be different, and, to tell you the truth, 
my foster brother, this adversity in which we are plunged 
has taught me lessons. 

Amos. {Eagerly.') And could you listen to a suit from 
such a source — a suit from a " greasy mechanic," a "mud- 
sill," as we call them ? 

Bessie, (After a pause.) I do n't know. I fear not. 
You see training and early prejudices get to be a second 
nature — much would depend on the oleaginous individual 
himself. Now, if he were like you, my brother — 

Amos. Like me. Oh, Bessie ! 

Enter Colonel Lacy. 
Lacy. A pleasant morning to you both. Miss Barr, 
you add sunlight to the house and fragrance to the garden. 
I am only happy when I bask in both. 

Bessie. Colonel Lacy, you shame me with such 
speeches. 

Lacy. Because your modesty adds grace to your 
loveliness. By the by, Amos, I was about to send for 
you. I have some work in your line I wish to consult you 
about. Can you not come to my house on your return to 
the city ? 



140 Lost and Won. 

Amos. With pleasure. Now, I will see Mr. Barr. 

Bessie. Do so, Amos, you will find him in our little 
breakfast room. 

Amos. {Aside.) She smiles upon my superior officer, 
of course, and yet I came near telling her all. {Exit.) 

Lacy. Now, my dear Bessie, have you thought on 
what I proposed when last we met ? 

Bessie. Thought and thought, until it seemed as if I 
would go wild. I can not yet see my way clear. 

Lacy. Were you to follow your loving little heart, 
would it not lead you out ? 

Bessie. That is precisely where I fail. My loving 
little heart, as you call it, will not move. My poor head 
has to work alone. 

Lacy. You can not love me — not the heart. 

Bessie. {Shaking her head.") Colonel Lacy, I like 
you, I respect you, but all the love my heart can give is 
absorbed by my father — my poor old father. 

Lacy. Therein lies my hope. In marrying you, my 
beautiful girl, I not only lift all care from his troubled 
heart, but place him in the ease to which his age and 
honors entitle him. 

Bessie. It is very tempting. Colonel Lacy. We are 
very, very poor, and while I, young and strong, can bear 
this want, it is carrying his bent form and gray hairs in 



Lost and Won. 141 

sorrow to the grave. Oh, I could say, take me, take me, 
and help my father. But — 

Lacy. What, my love ? 

Bessie. I fear you can not gain his consent, and I 
can not wed without that. 

Lacy. Have you spoken to him ? 

Bessie. Dear me, no. But, observing your attentions, 
he has dropped words from time to time that indicate any- 
thing but favor. 

Lacy. Of course, my darling. You are as sacred in 
his eyes as you are in mine. He has been looking into 
my life and finds it shocking. 

Bessie. And have you been so bad ? 

Lacy. Too bad for such an angel as you are. But a 
chance should be given — it is given for reformation. Do 
you remember that beautiful passage in Holy Writ where 
the blind cripple heard the Savior passing and cried out 
to be taken to him ? To every man once in his life the 
Savior passes. I see mine going by. Ah, my love, you 
hold in the hollow of your little hand my better destiny. 
Turn from me and I am lost. 

Bessie. I do like you. I believe in you. I — 

Lacy, Your father comes. May I address him now ? 

Bessie. Oh, no, not now. Wait. I am so confused. 

Lacy. Walk this way and think of it. {Exeunt.) 



142 Lost and Won. 

Enter Hamilton Barr and Amos, 
Barr. I am glad to hear of some response to my offer 
of twenty-five thousand dollars reward for a clue to that 
lost money. I can not and will not give up the hope of 
regaining at least some of it. A part of those securities 
were numbered and recorded. They have never been 
used, for they may be traced. 

Amos. I got this note through the post. It hints at 
some information. See. (Reads.) " If Mr. Amos Adze 
will grant an interview with the undersigned, he will learn 
something of the lost property for which Mr. Hamilton 
Barr offers a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars. Beck- 
with, detective No. 10, etc." I answered, asking him to 
come here this morning. He ought to have reported ere this. 

Enter Schack. 

Schack. Dar is a genelman at de doar askin' foh Mr. 
Amos Adze, sah. 

Barr. Tell him to walk this way. 

Schack. Yes, sah. 

Barr. Bless, my soul, Amos, I am getting old and 
dim-sighted, but that man approaching is — 

Amos. Your former overseer, Buckthorn. What can 
he want ? 

Barr. No good. I always detested him, and have 



Lost and Won. 143 

had for some unknown reason suspicion that he had some- 
thing to do with that theft. 

Enter Buckthorn. 

Buckthorn. Morning, gentlemen. You seem surprised 
to see me and I am very glad to see you both at last. 

Barr. {Stiffly.) Well, sir, and what can I do for 
you? 

Buckthorn. It isn't what you can do for me, but what 
I can do for you, that brought me here. I am Beckwith, 
detective. 

Barr. We know you as Buckthorn, overseer. 

Buckthorn. I took that name when I entered that 
business. 

Barr. Ashamed of the old one ? 

Buckthorn. No, sir; on the contrary, too proud of it. 
I am of a good English family, sir, fallen into decay, and 
when I stooped to such a degradation as that of overseer, 
I left the name behind. 

Barr. The man who seeks to save a name while de- 
grading himself, lets go the substance that he may cling to 
a shadow. But what is your business with us? 

Buckthorn. You lost a large sum of money on the 
occupation of your place by the Union army. You offer 
twenty-five thousand dollars reward for its recovery. 

Barr, True. 



144 Zarf and Won. 

Buckthorn. I believe I have a clue. 

Barr. What is it? 

Buckthorn. On that night I happened near the old 
tomb where the money was concealed, and I saw a man 
in the uniform of a Federal officer coming from it, and, 
as the door was forced open, I naturally concluded that 
he was the thief. 

Barr. And in all these years you have not communi- 
cated these facts to me ! 

Buckthorn. I did not know of the loss, and, when I 
did hear of it, I could not find you. 

Barr. True, I came North to realize on a~ small prop- 
erty left my child by a relative. And this man ? 

Buckthorn. Was and is a stranger to me. I have 
never seen him since. 

Barr. Well, I must say Mr. Buckthorn, or Beckwith, 
this is a very dim clue. Among the million of men mak- 
ing up that army one man is the needle in a hay-stack. 
The fellow may have been killed. 

Buckthorn. He did not take all that money with him 
to another world. But you may be sure he is alive. No 
heirs would guard the plunder as he is doing. 

Barr. That is a shrewd surmise, for some of the lost 
valuables were in English securities, numbered and re- 
corded. On that I base my hopes. What do you propose 
doing ? 



Lost and Won. 145 

Buckthorn. I thought if Mr. Adze here, who joined 
the Federal forces that night, could give the number and 
name of that regiment which first arrived, I could proba- 
bly find my man. I would know him were I to meet him 
again. 

Barr. How about that, Amos ? 

Amos. I fear it would be of small service. The first 
brigade that made the crossing pushed on. I suppose, 
however, we can find by earnest search what Beckwith 
needs. You have a diary I kept of my life in the army 
that I bound and presented Miss Bessie. There may be 
some dates of use in it. 

Barr. I know that book. It is on my table. Go 
with him, Amos, and search for what we need. 

Amos and Beckwith enter house ; enter Lacy and Bessie. 

Bessie. (To Lacy.) He looks angry and troubled. 
Had you not better postpone ? 

Lacy. No, now is my opportunity. (Bessie enters 
house.) Good morning, Mr. Barr. 

Ba?-r. {Coldly.) Good morning, sir. 

Lacy. I am glad to find you alone. I have a delicate 
matter to communicate of vital importance to me. 

Barr. Well, sir ? 

Lacy. You have doubtlessly observed my attachment 
for your lovely daughter. 
13 



146 Lost and Won. 

Barr. I have observed your attentions, sir. 

Lacy. I am deeply attached and I have reason to be- 
lieve that it is not unpleasant to her. 

Barr. Colonel Lacy, have you dared to approach my 
daughter as a suitor for her hand ? 

Lacy. I have. 

Barr. I am amazed ! I am indignant, sir, that you 
dare commit such an outrage. 

Lacy. I can not see wherein an honorable offer of 
marriage is such an offense. 

Barr. Colonel Lacy, your offer is not honorable. It' 
is- not the act of a gentleman. 

Lacy. Mr. Barr, is it necessary to couch your refusal 
in an insult ? 

Barr. The insult is in the offer, sir. 

Lacy. I really can not comprehend— 

Barr. You are dull, sir, or very designing. - 1 have 
but one child, Colonel Lacy. My noble boy sleeps at An- 
tietam in an unmarked grave. All I have to cling to in 
life is this poor girl. I could not see you so obviously at- 
tentive without inquiring as to your life, character and con- 
duct. I have learned enough to shut my humble door in 
your face. 

Lacy. May I beg to know — 

Barr. This is intolerable. You have a wife living — 
a wife you are ashamed of — 



Lost and Wo?i. 147 

Lacy. That is all wrong. I have no wife — 
Barr. . So much the worse for you. Enough of this ! 
I am an old man, hardly knowing from whence our next 
meal is to come, but I would rather see my daughter in 
some man's kitchen, or wearing her life out sewing in a 
garret, than put her pure soul in the keeping of your pol- 
luted hands. You have my answer, sir. 

Enter Amos and Buckthorn from house. 

Amos. He got no clue. 

Buckthorn. {Aside, seeing Lacy.) By the Lord, here 
is our man! {Aloud.) But I have. (Lacy, tinning sees 
Buckthorn, and starts back.) How are you, Captain ? It 
is sometime since we met. (To Colonel Lacy.) Keep 
cool, Captain. I am silent as the tomb. 

Barr. You know this man ? 

Buckthorn. (Significantly.) I know him! Yes, and 
what 's more important, he knows me. We know each 
other. (Attempts to lay his hand on Lacy's shoulder in a 
familiar manner.) 

Lacy. Off, you scoundrel ! (Hurls Buckthorn to the 
floor. 

Curtain. 



148 Lost and Won. 

ACT 11. 

Scene: Lawn in front of Lacy's house. Across the stage 
back runs a wall with door in it. Wall just high enough to 
show the tops of horses' heads. House, with fancy entrance, to 
the right. Rustic tables, chairs, settees, etc. 

Enter Schack with sack coat on ; pushes a chicken in and 
steals across. 

Schack. Now, ef I kin git past dis house widout ob- 
servation, I 'se all right. Got a truly good lay out dis 
time. {Enter Lacy and Amos from house. ) Lor a mity, 
heah de 'prietor hisself. 

Lacy. Hello, uncle Schack, how are you ? 

Schack. {Edging off.) I 'se purty well, tank 'ee, 
sah. 

Lacy. How are they at the cottage? Come nearer, 
man. 

Schack. Ya, ha, take care, sah. I'se got small-pox 
in my clos', sah. Yah, yah. 

Lacy. Yes, we heard that joke. Come, that laugh 
was worth a dollar. There it is, Schack. 

Shack. Oh, tank 'ee, sah, tank 'ee. You 's mity good 
to ole Schack, you is. 

Lacy. Why, Uncle Schack, you seem to be loaded 
down with live stock. How's this? 

Schack. Yes, sah ; yes, sah ; was down to de village, 



Lost and Won. 149 

sah; seed some nice fowls and eggs, sah; jis buy 'em an' 
put 'em in dese big pockets. 

Lacy. Let me see what kind of a bargain you were 
up to, Uncle Schack? {Puts his hand in Schack! s pocket.) 

Schack. {Aside.) Oh, de Lawd ! I 'se a gone coon 
now, shu nuff. 

Lacy. {Pulling out chicken.) Why, Schack, you cer- 
tainly are not so extravagant as to buy fancy fowls for the 
table. How many have you got of these, now ? 

Schack. Jis foh, sah; jis foh, sah. 

Lacy. Well, I can't have such lovely birds sacrificed 
in this manner. Now, Uncle Schack, I will buy them of 
you. Now, what do you value the fowls at? 

Schack. Well, sah, if dey was de common sort, I 
'spose dey was worf fifty cents a pair, but de fancy breed, 
sah, as you say, is valuable. Say foh dollars for de lot. 

Lacy. All right. There, I make it five. Drop them 
in the stable yard as you go along. 

Schack. All right, sah. I say, I forgot. Miss Bessie 
say in answer to yer note she and her aunt Hester walk 
ober dis arternoon. 

Lacy. Thank you. There 's a gold piece for you, 
Schack. 

Schack. Thank 'ee, sah. {Aside.) I dun sole him 
his own chickens. Fore de Lawd, but I did perspire. 
{Exit.) 



150 Lost and Won. 

Lacy. That poor old man goes about at the risk of 
his life appropriating poultry for this arrogant old Vir- 
ginian's table. I wonder if he does not suspect. 

Amos. He is too much lost in his own miseries. 

Lacy. That is true, and too proud and stubborn to 
permit any one to aid him. You understand, Amos, 
what I want done within, and, to accomplish it, am will- 
ing to expend liberally. 

Amos. The house seems perfect to my eyes as it 
stands, and it seems a pity to pull down and rebuild. 

Lacy. It was constructed before the esthetic craze 
took possession of our people. We had an order of 
architecture, peculiarly American, we called the comfort- 
able. Now, flat, Japanese barbarism is grafted on early 
English crudity, and what with lilies, storks, sunflowers, 
and peacock tails, spindle-shanked chairs and tables, we 
are esthetic as monkeys in purple and fine linen, and 
about as miserable. 

Amos. Why give into it, Colonel ? 

Lacy. You might as well expect a fish to live out of 
water as for one to reside inside society and override its 
whims. No, Amos, go at it. Employ men; knock down; 
tear out, and build up. You can't go amiss, for the more 
errors you make the more esthetic we shall appear. 

Amos. All right, Colonel. Your orders shall be 
obeyed. {Exit.) 



Lost and Won. 151 

Enter Bang. 

Bang. (Saluting.) Colonel. 

Lacy. Sergeant Bang. 

Bang. I have to report, a hard looking party outside 
asks entrance. 

Lacy. Who ? 

Bang. Name, sir. (Hands card.) 

Lacy. (Reads.) " Beckwith, Detective." Show 
the man in. (Bang salutes and exits.) Now, for a scene 
with my confederate, a hard customer, with iniquity fairly 
enameled on his ugly face; one of those fellows at war 
with the world, possessed of enough courage and cunning 
to keep him in trouble all the time. And I made this 
scoundrel my equal and partner. (Enter Buckthorn.) 
Well, Mr. Beckwith, have you come to apologize? 

Buckthorn. For being knocked down? 

Lacy. No, for provoking that breach of good manners? 

Buckthorn. You do n't remember ; you do n't recog- 
nize me. 

Lacy. To the best of my knowledge and belief I 
never saw your intellectual countenance before, and, Mr. 
Beckwith, I can assure you that I have no wish ever to 
see it again. 

Buckthorn. Oh, very likely. (Seating himself 'on table) . 
I have no question but you would feel more comfortable 
if I were non est. 



152 Lost and Won. 

Lacy. Now, listen to me, Mr. Beckwith, detective, 
and pay attention to what I say, for it will not be repeated. 
If you do n't drop that offensive, familiar manner, you 
will not only be knocked down, but kicked off this place. 
It is some distance from here to the road. Get off that 
table and try to behave like a respectable man — I won't 
say gentleman. That is impossible. 

Buckthorn. {Getting off table) Oh, you 're a cool 
one. 

Lacy. There it is again. I am not solicitous to 
know your opinion of me. 

Buckthorn. Should think not. 

Lacy. Once for all, will you drop that, or shall I 
have you kicked off the place ? 

Buckthorn. As you will, Captain Lacy. I will not 
quarrel with you, if I can help it, Captain Lacy. 

Lacy. I am not Captain Lacy. I left the army a 
Colonel and Brigadier-General by brevet. I care nothing 
for my title ; but, since you put such stress on it, you may 
as well have it correctly. 

Buckthorn. You were a Captain once, when the 
Union army forced a crossing at Barr's ferry. 

Lacy. I could not well be promoted else. Why 
Barr's ferry ? 

Buckthorn. There was a strange affair occurred there. 
I was overseer upon the place of the old gentleman, then 



Lost and Won. 153 

very wealthy, now poor and your tenant. On the night 
of the occupation this old man hid all that was his in the 
world in the family vault and that night the vault was 
opened and the money stolen. 

Lacy. I have heard that story before. It is not in- 
teresting through its novelty. 

Buckthorn. Perhaps I can make it more so. There 
There was a poor man, somewhat down in the world, 
living in that locality, who saw the valuables hidden and 
found a Union officer ready to dig them up, and who did 
dig and walk off with same. 

Lacy. Well, sir? 

Buckthorn. I saw all this done. 

Lacy. And you dare insinuate — 

Buckthorn. Oh, no, Colonel Lacy. I did that once 
and got knocked down. No danger of my repeating the 
experiment. Your resemblance to that officer was so 
striking, that I for a moment forgot myself. 

Lacy. Do n't repeat the offense, then. 

Buckthorn. There is another strange resemblance. 

Lacy. What is it? 

Buckthorn. Not willing to let the Captain off, who 
had so suddenly grown rich, I lingered round the tomb, 
and saw my Captain joined by a woman — right pretty 
woman she was in the bright light of burning stores. 
Her face impressed me. 



154 Lost and Won. 

Lacy. Well, proceed. 

Buckthorn. The other day, in my capacity of detec- 
tive, I was employed by Shyster & Gripp, divorce lawyers, 
to work up the case of Lacy against Lacy, for an 
Indiana court. It was no easy job, for Mrs. Lacy knew 
what she was about in her little pranks, and I had to find 
good witnesses to swear to what we knew but could n't 
prove. Do you know, Colonel, that a case against a good 
woman who is a little imprudent is always easier than 
against a guilty one ? You see, the guilty one covers her 
track. 

Lacy. Enough of this. Go on with your story. 

Buckthorn. It makes a very material part of it. We 
got the divorce. Shyster & Gripp requested me, as I was 
coming this way, to give you a certified copy of the 
decree freeing you from the late Mrs. Lacy. 

Lacy. Thanks. But what has all this to do with the 
lost money of Mr. Hamilton Barr? 

Buckthorn. That is what I am trying to discover. 

Lacy. Well, I can't aid you in that. 

Buckthorn. Do n't believe you will. You see, Col- 
onel, I did not know Mrs. Lacy when I was employed, 
but it was necessary that I should know her, and, when I 
came to see her, I was struck — I assure you I was struck 
— I knew that face, and yet, I could not place it. 

Lacy. Well. 



Lost and Won. 155 

Buckthorn, Why, Colonel, fancy plays such odd tricks 
with a man, he isn't safe. I thought you resembled my 
Union officer, and now your late wife seems to be that 
identical woman. 

Lacy. And you return by another road to that in- 
famous charge. You dare assert — 

Buckthorn. Oh, no, Colonel. I know I must be 
mistaken. A gentleman of your high position could 
never stoop to such a theft, and then keep the poor eld 
man and his starving family hanging on the little end of 
desperation. I ask your pardon. I must be crazy. I 
will at once set myself free of the delusion by asking the 
late Mrs. Lacy. She won't like you or me much after 
what we have done to her, but I guess she '11 blurt out the 
truth. 

Lacy. Mr. — What is the name? {Looking at card) 
Beckwith, detective, you have executed your business 
here. Now, there is the avenue to the road and the road 
to the station. The sooner you start and the more rapidly 
you travel the better for all parties. 

Buckthorn. Thank you, Colonel; thank you. If you 
should ever want me, my address is on the card. 

Lacy. I shall never need you; the police may. 
{Buckthorn starts.) Now, go. {Exit Buckthorn). I 
am running close upon a lee shore. The word of that 
fellow is not worth heeding, but supplemented by Helen's 



156 Lost and Won. 

would be ruin. Nothing can save me but an immediate 
elopement and marriage with Bessie, the little angel. 
{Enter Bang, followed by Bessie and Aunt Hester.) 

Bang. Colonel. 

Lacy. Sergeant. 

Bang. The ladies. 

Lacy. Show Miss Hester the grounds and gather a 
bouquet from the conservatory, Sergeant, while I enter- 
tain Miss Barr. 

Bang. All right, Colonel. Orders from headquarters, 
Miss. 

Aunt Hester. Which I am supposed to obey ? 
Bang. Regulations, Miss. (Exit with Aunt Hester.) 

Lacy. It was very good of you, my love, to accord 
me this interview. It may be our last. 

Bessie. Our last? 

Lacy. I made my humble appeal to your father this 
morning, and had it met with a refusal couched in an 
insult, so grave that I can not approach him again. 

Bessie. My father? I can't comprehend. I can un- 
derstand why he should skrink from parting with me, his 
only child, but why he should insult you is strange. 

Lacy. Not when you are possessed of the 'facts. 
Your father was right in his refusal, and it does not lie in 
my mouth to complain of the insult. 



Lost and Won. 157 

Bessie. And why ? 

Lacy. Because it was and is deserved. I am all un- 
worthy of you, my angel. The man who offers you a 
home should be above reproach, and that home should be 
as pure as heaven. 

Bessie. Are you so wicked, Edmund. 

Lacy. I never knew how wicked until I read it by 
the light of your innocent love. I knew that part of the 
dark story would be told you, and I could not bear to 
have it come from hostile lips that would make it darker 
than it is. I asked to see you that I might confess all, 
plead forgiveness, and go my way to poverty and shame 
with the one comfort of your forgiveness. 

Bessie. Poverty and shame ? 

Lacy. Yes, for I must make restitution, and that 
leaves me poor indeed, for it robs me not only of wealth, 
but a good name. 

Bessie. You shall not do this. Surely repentance 
need not be accompanied with such a penalty. 

Lacy. It needs full restitution, and if in the confes- 
sion I can save myself from your contempt, it is all I ask. 

Bessie. I will not hear it. You have given me your 
love, and, in so doing, prohibited my being your judge. 
Let me deal frankly Vith you as you seek to deal with me. 
I do not love you. I do n't know how to express myself 
— I like you; I respect your every act. Your every 



158 Lost and Won. 

word deepens that respect until I am willing to trust my all 
to your keeping, and, I am ashamed to say it, I lift my poor 
old father in doing so from the distress that is killing him. 

Lacy. You force me, dear girl, to tell you all. 

Bessie. Oh, no. Let the dead past rest in its grave. 
I accept your present; I trust your future. 

Lacy. You can not accept or trust until I tell you all, 
for the dead past will not down. The gaunt apparition 
will leave the altar at your side and come between when 
too late for any exorcism of mine. 

Bessie. As you will. (Seats herself; Lacy walks to 
and fro agitated.) 

Lacy. The night of the occupation of your dear old 
home in Virginia your father lost, through a vile theft, all 
he possessed on earth. 

Bessie. I know. 

Lacy. I am that thief. 

Bessie. (Starting up) Edmund Lacy ! 

Lacy. Hear me. Your father's overseer led me to the 
spot; dug up and gave me the money. Up to that mo- 
ment my life had been honest and honorable. I could kill 
for my country, I thought ; I could not plunder for my- 
self. The temptation was too great. I fell. (She sits 
again, covering her face with her hands.) I see you shrink 
in shame. It is my punishment. I am man enough yet 
to bear it. It is my worst. 



Lost and Won. 159 

Bessie. This is horrible ! 

Lacy. Years after, when I found you and your father 
stripped to want through my sin, I strove hard to com- 
promise my iniquity by aiding him. Your father's stub- 
born pride stood in the way. I could only get him to ac- 
cept the little cottage on this place at a nominal rent. I 
saw you ; I loved you. 

Bessie. Why not, through that love, make restitution 
without this horrible confession ? 

Lacy. I had made that impossible. Hear me out. 
The worst is yet to come. A girl, a camp follower, wit- 
nessed my crime. To close her mouth, I made her my 
wife. 

Bessie. {Starting up) And you dared add insult to 
injury by offering me your hand — 

Lacy. Ah, no. This woman freed herself of the re- 
straint that marriage imposed. It was not until I was free 
of her that I ventured to approach you. The grave, 
indignant face of your dear father, awakened me to the 
hopeless folly of such an attempt. 

Bessie. And you are free ? 

Lacy. There is the decree granting the divorce. I 
am free of her, but I am not free to approach you. 

Bessie. And now ? 

Lacy. To-night I will confess to your dear father as I 
have confessed to you ; return him all, to the last cent, 



160 Lost and Won. 

with interest, his lost property, and to-morrow go forth a 
ruined and disgraced man. (After a pause) Miss Barr, 
I will recall your companion and bid you good-bye. 

Bessie. Not yet. Let me think. This revelation has 
been so sudden, so terrible, I can not grasp it. Let me 
consider for a moment. {After a pause.) I have resolved, 
Edmund, you shall not do this thing. I can not consent 
to such a sacrifice. That cruel war so confused all sense 
of right and wrong, your act loses half its evil. You are 
generous in your offer of self-sacrifice, and if my little 
hand can save you, I stretch it out to you. 

Lacy. Bessie, my darling, my savior ! But your 
father will never consent to this. 

Bessie. Yes, if we wait long enough to win his ap- 
proval. 

Lacy. There is too much peril in the waiting. 

Bessie. You fear me ? 

Lacy. Yes; a little reflection — cooler thought, your 
very self-respect will come between and drive us apart. 
Ah, my darling, better never to have tendered the hope, 
than to follow it with disappointment. I could have 
given you up before. I can not now. 

Bessie. What would you ? 

Lacy. Have you wed and win approval after. I 
would secure you past all doubt. 

Bessie. Is not this selfish ? 



Lost and Won. 161 

Lacy. Beyond question, selfish. You offer life to a 
dying man; hope to the condemned; succor to one 
drowning, and I grasp the little hand till it pains you. 
Oh, my angel, trust me, believe in me; give me con- 
trol ! 

Bessie. I do; I will. 

Lacy. To-night your father visits the city on business 
that will detain him till late. I will come to the cottage; 
take you to my carriage, and when he returns, it will be 
to find us man and wife. 

Bessie. Poor father; but it is for his good. I shall 
expect you, and may heaven grant that I shall never 
regret what I am doing. (Coach horn heard without.) 
What is that ? 

Lacy. Philip Fitzpoodle with his coach. He served 
notice on me that this would be made a station to-day, 
and I am to entertain the passengers. 

[Coach drawn by four horses enters back of wall. The 
heads of horses only are seen, with the top of coach, on which 
are seated Fitzpoodle, driving, Helen, Lord Tomnoddy, 
and one, two, and three ladies; also, one, two, and three 
gentlemen.) 

Fitzpoodle. (From box of coach .) Hilio, the house ! 

Lacy. (Putting on apron and cap.) Hillo, the coach! 
(Passengers descend as Lacy goes out at gate as waiter, bowing 
to them in old style.) This way, ladies and gentlemen, this 



1 62 Lost and Won. 

way; you are welcome to Lacy Lodge. (As they enter 
Bessie goes out, Helen staring at her.) 

Fitzpoodle. I say, Ned, you do it up in first rate style ; 
eh, me lawd? 

Tomnoddy. Remarkably correct, you know. Gad, 
ye 'd think him keeper of a beer house; you would, 
indeed. 

Lacy. Thanks; be seated, ladies and gentlemen; 
what shall it be — milk or champagne? Don't hesitate. 
Cost about the same. 

Fitzpoodle. I say iced milk, with plenty of grog and 
no sugar, is good for a hot day. 

First Gentleman. More milk and less grog, Fitz, if 
you 're going to drive. Do n't want another excitement, 
by Jove. 

Lacy. What's that? 

First Gentleman. Last Wednesday Fitz got too much 
grog aboard, and, tooling through the park, he collided 
on a family vehicle, and spilled infant Jacobs along for a 
hundred yards. Then the police got after us, you know, 
and such a racket; just tumbled through, and got fined a 
hundred a piece for damages and violation of ordinance. 
Don't want any more of that, you know, in mine. 

Fitzpoodle. Can tool the conveyince through all drunk 
better than any party can sober. Hi '11 take grog; give 
the ladies champagne. 






Lost and Won. 163 

Helen. Bother your slops; give me a glass of beer. 

First Lady. Me, too. 

Second Lady. I ditto. 

Third Lady. I likewise. 

Helen. Unanimous. (Bang and servants serve refresh- 
ments) 

Fitzpoodle. Now, let's have a little turn at lawn tennis 
while the stock is baiting; then on into town. Come, all 
of you. (Exeunt all save Lacy and Helen.) 

Helen. What a lot ! What do you think of that ? 

Lacy. A good imitation of a bad original. The cad 
of London is the swell of New York. We can not be 
original even in our folly. Now, Nell, to what am I in- 
debted for this unexpected pleasure of seeing you ? 

Helen. To a judge out in Indiana. I received this 
morning a solemn looking document that informed me 
that the partnership heretofore existing between one Ed- 
mund Lacy and a certain Helen Lacy was dissolved on 
petition of plaintiff, said Edmund Lacy. Npw, Hub, 
that was mean. 

Lacy. You asked a separation and I granted it. 

Helen. Correct. 

Lacy. And now you complain that I make all this 
legal. 

Helen. No, I don't. I complain of its being done 
so hastily and without my knowledge. 



164 Lost and Won. 

Lacy. And would your knowledge have made any 
difference ? 

Helen. Some little. You stole into an Indiana court 
and stuffed the chaste ears of the learned judge with a 
pack of lies respecting my virtuous character. 

Lacy. Correct. 

Helen. I was about to save you all that trouble and 
expense, and you have spoiled my little scheme. 

Lacy. Very sorry. 

Helen. No, you are not. But, like all men, you have 
muddled the business amazingly, and it was mean. 
Lacy. How, for example. 

Helen. Edmund, late husband, the only thing beside 
my beauty that I inherited from poor, but respected 
parents, whoever they were, was a faculty for keeping my 
eyes open. With them open I have seen the little game 
you are playing here. 

Lacy. Indeed ! 

Helen- Pshaw ! This palatial residence on the Hud- 
son, the little cottage attached, the pretty little Bessie 
Barr in one, Edmund Lacy, late husband in the other. 
I '11 bet two to one, and no takers, that the sly little 
puss we met coming in was the inexpressive she going 
out. 

Lacy. Well ? 

Helen. It is far from well. You wish Mrs. Lacy No. 2, 



Lost and Won. 1.65 

young, handsome, and another and a final look to the 
door of that tomb upon the James. 

Lacy. And why should I seek to make more secure 
that which is so well sealed ? 

Helen. Is it ? Oh, you near-sighted gentleman ! A 
quantity of those securities were numbered and recorded. 
You were foolish enough to hypothecate them in the 
purchase of this place. A reward of twenty-five thousand 
dollars is offered, and a description of the missing bonds 
given. Secure stealing? You make me smile. I could 
have aided you, and yet you spoil my little game by 
throwing me over through an Indiana court, getting a lot 
of rascals to swear to a lot of lies. I was about to save 
you that, too. 

Lacy. Your little game? I do not understand. 

Helen. Of course you do n't. Like all men you 
have your appreciative mind fixed on yourself, and are 
oblivious to all others. Edmund, late husband, do you 
know that I have one vice ? 

Lacy. 1 beg pardon. I thought to have discerned 
several. 

ILclcn. And yet your divorce lawyers had to suborn 
witnesses to prove one, and that not the real one. Ed- 
mund, I am ambitious. Old Will says beware of ambition 
— I court it. 

Lacy. Well? 



1 66 Lost and Won. 

Helen. I would have my. name in every one's mouth 
on Murray Hill; I would have it in every newspaper in 
the land. To this end I had arranged to elope with Lord 
Tomnoddy this very night. 

Lacy. Well, if this is not brutal frankness, I do n't 
know the article.' 

Helen. It was delicious. All fashionable New York 
is crazy over simple Tom. Mothers fling innocent daugh- 
ters at his head ; wives run after him, and the men, old 
and young, bump their empty heads upon the floor in his 
presence. To-morrow the startled world was to read 
astounding fashionable news: Lord Tomnoddy, the pet 
of Murray Hill, has eloped with the beautiful, accom-. 
plished, and fascinating Mrs. Colonel Edmund Alfred 
Lacy, Colonel Lacy, late of the United States Army. I 
prepared the notices myself, and they are in the hands of 
the reporters, and now, you stupid, you have spoiled it all. 

Lacy. I can't see it. You are free to run away — 
more free than before. 

Helen. You would exasperate a saint ! What have I 
left to run from. Ridiculous ! A divorced wife ! Why, 
it would make simple Tom mad and us both ridiculous. 
No, I must give it up and get in my reports. This is a 
blunder, Hub, that amounts to a crime. You must be 
punished. You shall not marry that innocent girl. You 
must marry me again and give me another chance. 



Lost and Won. 167 

Lacy. And if I refuse ? 

Helen. I will run over to the old Virginian and tell 
him the whole story. 

Lacy. And lose your $5,000 a year. 

Helen. Not a bit of it. In view of the uncertainties 
of life incident to Wall street, I had that put in securities 
no wise affected by this — what-shall-I-call-it — forced loan 
from Virginia. 

Lacy. You'll think better of this. 

Helen. No, I won't. I '11 think worse. 

Fitzpoodle. (Outside.) Hello, Lacy. We want you. 

Lacy. I am called. Wait here a moment. (Exit.) 

Helen. Poor old Ned ! What a muss he has made of 
it. He must be taught to appreciate my assistance. 

Enter Buckthorn. 

Buckthorn. Madam, I have something to say to you. 

Helen. I hope it is not complimentary, for I could 
not reciprocate. I think — you must excuse me — you 
have about the worst face I ever saw. What a get-up for 
a heavy villian in a melodrama. 

Buckthorn. We must not be seen together. 

Helen. Oh, don't be uneasy. That countenance of 
yours is any woman's protection. As the politicians say, 
it might be called a prohibitory tariff. 



1 68 Lost and Won. 

Buckthorn. We have no time for trifling. You are 
a wronged woman— most damnably wronged. 

Helen. Oh, thank you for nothing. I have known 
that for some time. Your information is quite gratuitous. 

Buckthorn. You do n't know the extent of your 
wrongs. I am Beckwith, the detective. I was employed 
to blast your character in an Indiana court. 

Helen. You are — are you that same scoundrel? And 
to what do I owe this sudden compunction ? 

Buckthorn. The fact that we can punish the instigator 
of the offense and divide a cool million between us. 

Helen. Now, you deep-dyed villain, you heavy vil- 
lain, will you please tell me how this is to be done ? 

Buckthorn. I was the man that saw that treasure 
buried. I was the man that dug it up and gave it to 
Captain Lacy. You saw it also. Our joint testimony will 
force him to disgorge. 

Helen. What a revelation ! 

Buckthorn. There is no time to lose. He has planned 
an elopement with the old Virginian's only child to-night. 
That once accomplished and our game is blocked. Where 
can I meet you in the city. 

Helen. Elope with her? Not much. He must re- 
marry me. He headed off my elopement; I will spoil his. 

Buckthorn. Quick, madam. They are breaking up. 
Give me your address. 



Lost and Won. 169 

Helen. {Handing card.) There it is. I shall be at 
home at eight this evening. (Buckthorn seizes card and 
hurries off.) 

Coach comes on as before ', winding horn. Enter Lord Tom- 
noddy. 

Lord To?nnoddy. Got away from the beastly lot, me 
gull, to remind you of your promise. Steamer sails to- 
morrow. My adoration will not disappoint me? 

Helen. I fear I must, me lawd. 

Lord Tomnoddy. Ah, no, naw ! You caunt mean it, 
and our passages taken and my kit packed ? 

ILelen. Caunt help it, me lawd. The elopement is 
indefinitely postponed. 

Lord Tomnoddy. Naw, look here. Isn't this rawther 
hard times on a poor devil. I say it is the worst case of 
jilt I ever knew. 

Helen. Not my fault, me lawd. This beast of a hus- 
band has gone, without my knowledge, and obtained an 
Indiana divorce. 

Lord Tomnoddy. What 's that ? 

Helen. A short cut across lots to a legal severance of 
the marriage knot ; very mean, sneaking, and contempt- 
ible, but effectual. You can not elope with a divorced 
woman. That 's ridiculous. You can marry me. 

Lord Tomnoddy. That 's more damnably absurd than 
15 



176 



Lost and Won. 



the other. Why, I never knew such a howling cad as 
this husband, you knaw. I could kick him. {Enter 
Lacy, Fitzpoodle, and crowd. To Lacy.) Ah, me deah 
fellaw, we 've had a jolly good time. We have, indeed. 
Would like to see you at Castle Barrows to reciprocate 
your elegant hospitality, you knaw. 

Fitzpoodle. Had a devil of a good time. 

Lacy. Thanks. 

Fitzpoodle. All aboard. 

Helen. Ta, ta, hubby. (Exit all save Lacy; mount 
coach and drive off, horn sounding.) 

Lacy. Gone at last, thank heaven. Now, for my 
arrangements. (Enter Buckthorn.) Here again? What 
did I promise you if you appeared upon this place ? 

Buckthorn. Captain — I beg your pardon, Colonel — 
Lacy, you are too hasty. You are in great peril. I can 
save you. 

Lacy. When my salvation depends on your saving 
grace may I be damned. 

Buckthorn. But Captain — Colonel, I mean. You 
don't know all. That woman has gone back on you. 
She is on her way to the city this minute to make com- 
plaint. Now, give me fifty thousand and I will make it 
secure. 

Lacy. Not a cent. 

Buckthorn. Say twenty-five. 



Lost and Won. 171 

Lacey. Never. Now, go. 

Buckthorn. Say ten. 

Lacy. {Taking out his watch.) Listen, you scoundrel. 
I give you one minute to get off this place. 

Buckthorn. Oh, look here. Listen to reason. Make 
it five thousand and a ticket to California. 

Lacy. You have lost two seconds. (Rings bell.) 
There goes another. 

Buckthorn. (Going.) I'll make you suffer for this. 
Let us see how you'll keep it up. 

L,acy. Twenty seconds left. (Exit Buckthorn as 
Bang enters.) Bang, have my carriage at the turn of the 
road nearest the cottage precisely at eight o'clock to-night. 
You must drive. Tell John I wish him to remain at home 
and nurse that sick colt. Do you understand ? 

Ba?ig. All right, Colonel. (Exit. Whistle of train 
heard.) 

Lacy. If he makes that train he will gain an hour. 
The next, an express, passes this station without stopping. 
There he runs across the field. There is a jump of twelve 
feet. God-send, he breaks his neck ! No, he is over. The 
devil is kind to his own. He makes the train. An hour 
to town; an hour to find Helen; an hour for the police, 
and an hour in which to return — four hours. I can ac- 
complish my purpose in that time, if at all. 

Curtain. 



172 Lost and Won. 

ACT III. 

Scene: Interior of Barr cottage. Glass windows, giving 
sunset on Hudson. — After, moonlight. Room, doors right and 
left. Bessie discovered sewing. Aunt Hester and Schack. 

Aunt Hester. We want fish for breakfast. Brother 
Hamilton's appetite is so delicate that it is almost impos- 
sible to find any thing for him to eat. 

Schack. Its a' most impossible to find any ting foh any 
ob us to eat. 

Aunt Hester. Oh, as for us, we can eat almost any 
thing. 

Schack. When we gets 'em. 

Aunt Hester. And Schack, be very careful of that 
wine Governor Medcalf sent out for your master. 

Schack. Jis' as careful as if it was a suckin' chile. I 
watches dat wine as a hawk watches a hen roost. 

Aunt Hester. Now, mind ; fresh fish for breakfast. Do 
them, Schack, in good old Virginia style — rolled in corn 
meal, and fried in fresh butter by a quick fire. 

Schack. Fish an' fresh butter. 

Aunt Hester. What do you repeat that for ? 

Schack. Why, Missus, dar aint a speck of fresh buttah 
in dis house, and wha' dem fish is to come from de Lawd 
alone knows. 



Lost and Won. 173 

Aunt Hester. That is your business. I told you fresh 
fish this morning. What are you about, Schack ? 

Schack. About a good many tings. I 'se cook an' 
chamba'maid. I 'se de vally de shamble to de ole masta. 
I runs errands an' answers de doah-bell, an' de meantime, 
'tween 'em all, I mends my wearin' 'parel and cobble my 
shoes. 

Aunt Hester. Well, you have twenty-four hours a day 
to do that in. Why grumble ? 

Schack. I aint a grumblin', tho' I does have to stretch 
dem twenty-foh hours sometimes. 

Aunt Hester. Well, do n't forget the fish. 

Schack. Foh de Lawd. I reads in de Scriptur ob de 
good Savior feedin' de multitudes on five fish an' five 
loaves. I 'd like to know how he did it — I would. 

Aunt Hester. Schack, this Northern life is fast ruining 
you. You are actually getting profane. 

Schack. Profane ? I'd like to see de man, white or 
brack, 'ed carry dis family as I does an' not, at times — at 
times, I say, not allers, but at times — let out wickedness. 
Now, 'bout dem fish. Dar aint no market 'twixt now an' 
breakfast time, an' I '11 jis' step ober to Colonel Lacy's wid 
de compliments ob de masta, an' ask foh de loan of three 
or foh fish out of his fish pon\ Foh de buttah — I declar 
foh de Lawd, I doan know what to do foh dat buttah. 
Guess I ax foh de loan ob de buttah, also. (Exit, grumbling.) 



174 Lost and Won. 

Aunt Hester. That old nigger is getting very trouble- 
some. I do wish brother Hamilton would employ some 
one to help him. 

Bessie. Aunt, what Uncle Schack says — dear old man 
— is the melancholy truth. He is carrying this family on 
his old shoulders. 

Aunt Hester. Well, I know he is faithful and indus- 
trious, and all that, but he is getting so impudent in his im- 
portance. Why, he talks as if we were dependent on him. 

Bessie. I fear, dear aunt, there is too much truth in 
what his manner asserts. 

Aunt Hester. What do you mean ? 

Bessie. That to his exertions we owe our daily bread. 
Oh, aunt, it is too humiliating ! You do n't know. You 
have n't seen what I am forced to see. This good old 
man actually steals that we may live. 

Aunt Hester. Bessie, I can't believe this. You are 
in error, child. 

Bessie. No, no ; I am not. I had proof of it to-day. 

Aunt Hester. But he has means given him. 

Bessie. To buy such food as we have, aunt, he has 
little or nothing. It is horrible. 

Aunt Hester. What ! a great Virginia family reduced 
to such degradation ? What can we do ? 

Bessie. {Heavily.) Oh, I don't know. Yes, I do! 
Colonel Lacy offered father his hand to me in marriage 



Lost and Won. 175 

this morning and father refused with insult. I can not 
understand it. I will sacrifice myself that he may live. 
I see him failing day by day, his dear head bowed in want 
and misery. What is my life to his and yours ? I am 
resolved. 

Aunt Hester. On what, my child ? 

Bessie. To marry him without my father's consent. 

Aunt Hester. Oh, Bessie. 

Bessie. What can we do ? I can not see him dying 
by inches, his gray hairs going down in sorrow to the 
grave. I am resolved to act, and act at once. 

Aunt Hester. Do you love this Colonel Lacy ? 

Bessie. I don't know. What matters it? It is my 
duty to sacrifice myself. I know that he is a gentleman. 
I can respect him. Indeed, aunt, there is real nobility in 
his nature. I can see it, if my father can not. 

Aunt Hester. Bessie, be careful. Remember you 
are a Barr — the only child of a noble family. Better 
abide by your father's decision. 

Bessie. A noble family in rags ! A noble family living 
on the questionable efforts of an old slave. My father's 
stubborn pride holds out even before death from want. 
Oh, no ; my way is plain before me. For his sake, for 
yours, for myself, I go the way my duty points. (Bell 
rings.) It is Colonel Lacy. Aunt, leave us, please. 

Aunt Hester. Oh, my child, be careful. 



176 Lost and Won. 

Bessie. I will ; I will. {Kissing her!) Good-night, aunt 
Aunt Hester. Good-night, my darling. (Exit.) 
Bessie. I tremble like an aspen. I feel that I am 
doing wrong. Heaven, help me. 

Enter Colonel Lacy. 

Lacy. I come, my little girl. I come to claim you, 
my love. Are you yet resolved ? 

Bessie. (After a pause.) Yes; I am a Barr. My 
promise is as sacred as an oath. I am resolved against 
my father's will. I disobey that I may save him. 

Lacy. You are right, my darling. Trust me, and if 
I fail or falter may heaven fail me ! My carriage waits us. 
A short drive, a little ceremony, and you are mine. Put 
on your hat and wraps. (Bell rings.) Who can that be? 

Bessie. Surely not my father. He is in the city. 

Enter Amos Adze. 

Amos.. Uncle Schack informed me that I would find 
you in. He said nothing of you, Colonel, or I should 
not have intruded. 

Bessie. No intrusion, Amos. The Colonel and I 
were about to take a stroll. Will you excuse me while I 
see my aunt again, and put on my hat ? 

Amos. Certainly. I want a few minutes with my 
Colonel before I return to town. 



Lost and Won. 177 

Bessie. {Aside to Lacy) He will leave while I am 
out. (Exit.) 

Lacy. Sit down, Amos. I have a little time at your 
disposal. 

Amos. Thank you, Colonel. (Sitting.) 

Lacy. What is it, my boy ? 

Amos. I hardly know where or how to begin. 

Lacy. I listen. 

Amos. You know, Colonel, my poor mother, left a 
widow when T was a boy, was lifted out of want by Mr. 
Barr, and I was adopted in his family, reared and educated 
as one of his own. 

Lacy. You have told me as much. 

Amos. We were Northern people, induced to emi- 
grate South — my father as a teacher. He sickened and 
died, leaving us without bread or shelter. Not long after 
my poor mother followed, and I lived on, the companion 
of the two children of my benefactor. The son, my 
foster-brother, fell fighting for the Southern cause; the 
daughter is here. You know her, Colonel. 

Lacy. I know her. I worship her. 

Amos. I see, and it is this 'seeing that makes me 
speak, Colonel. From the time that I joined your com- 
pany till I lost my leg at Malvern Hill, you were very 
kind to me. 



178 Lost and Won. 

Lacy. You were too brave a lad — too good a soldier 
not to be loved. 

Amos. I remember your tender nursing when I lay 
so long lingering between life and death. Colonel Lacy, 
there is but one being on earth I love better than you. 

Lacy. Yes, Amos. 

Amos. You wo n't laugh when I tell you. I, a poor 
mechanic and cripple, love Bessie Barr. 

Lacy. Amos ! 

Amos. • Love — I worship her! From my earliest boy- 
hood till the present moment she has been, not my hope, 
but my star — my religion ! 

Lacy. You have told her this ? 

Amos. Never. I did not dream of telling. I dared 
not. She is so far above that it seems a crime to love her. 

Lacy. Poor boy. 

Amos. But I have watched over — I have cared for — 
I have guarded and helped her in my poor way. You 
see, when I came from the hospital, maimed for life, I 
found my good old benefactor reduced to the direst pov- 
erty. I managed to turn over to him, under pretense that 
it was an old Revolutionary claim being paid him, all my 
pension. Then, by grinding an organ on the corners of 
the streets and limping into cars to sell ballads, I managed 
to live until I learned a trade. 

Lacy. What a life! 



Lost and Won. 179 

Amos. The thought of my dear old friend ; the love 
of this sweet lady, kept me up. My trade once secured 
I felt independent. But I went on. You see these things 
about here, Colonel ? 

Lacy. The furniture? 

Amos. I made them all, working out of hours, far 
into the night, that I might make them comfortable. 
There is not a chair or table but has had worked into it 
my love of her. The music of her sweet voice I seemed 
to hear; the holy beauty of her lovely face I seemed to 
see, cheered me on until I lost all sense of weariness, all 
want of sleep. 

Lacy. She never knew of this? 

Amos. Oh, Colonel, how could she? As well ask a 
bird to stoop and be companion to a clod ; a star to leave 
its place for a home in a swamp. Save yourself, the secret 
goes down to be buried in my grave. I had to tell you 
I knew you loved her. I know that she loves you; that 
she is to be yours. God help me — and I come now to 
give her away as it were. You and I are not so wide 
apart. We have been comrades in the face of death. 
That makes us equal, if you were an officer and I only a 
private. Take her, Colonel. {Rising.) Be kind to her; 
I know you will. I go my poor w T ay, now, without my 
star. I never had hope, but I go without light. It is 
dreary enough. But it must be. God bless you both! 



180 Lost and Won. 

Bessie rushes in. 

Bessie. Not so, Amos ! You shall not go ; or, if you 
do, take me with you ! 

Amos. Bessie, what do this mean ? 

Bessie. It means I love you. I did not know it until 
now. I heard you; I heard it all. Oh, Amos, take me! 

Amos. {Clasping he?- in his arms .) Bessie, Colonel, is 
this a dream ? 

Lacy. Aye, my brave boy, and a dream to last 
through life! Take him, Bessie; he is worthy of you. 
Take her, Amos. You have won. (Noise of a carriage 
heard without; loud knocking, and ringing of bell.) And I 
have lost. 

Curtain. 

ACT IV. 

Scene: Lacy Lodge, same as in Act II. Schack discovered 
with basket. Enter Amos and Lacy from house. 

Lacy. Well, uncle Schack, how are you this morning, 
and how is the family ? 

Shack. Dey is well, sah; dat is, as fah as dey is up. 
Foh myself, sah, I'se a touch of rheumatiz. 

Lacy. Sorry, Schack. Have you tried St. Jacob's 
Oil that I gave you ? 



Lost and Won. 1 8 1 

Schack. Yes, sah. I tried dat spific ; rubbed de saint 
in well, sah, an' wid prahers to the udder saints. 

Lacy. Well, I hope with a good result. 

Schack. Only temporary, sah ; only temporary. While 
1' se arubbin' it is a mighty sight better, sah ; but arter, de 
pains come back, bad as ever, sah. 

Lacy. Why, that is too bad ! Well, what can I do for 
you, Schack ? 

Schack. Well, dat 's it, Colonel. I 'se so bad wid de 
rheumatiz I raly aint able to walk to de village foh de 
fresh fish for the ole massa and de missus. 

Lacy. Certainly, Uncle Schack ; go to my cook and 
tell him that you are to have the fish and any tiling else 
you may need. 

Schack. Oh, tank you, sah. You 's berry kind, an' 
sometime to-day, when I kin hobble to the village, I '11 re- 
place dem tings, sah ; shu', sah. Good mornin' gentlemen. 
(Exit.) 

Lacy. Poor old Schack ; true to the last. Well, 
Amos, we had rather an exciting scene last night. Have 
you any idea what brought the old gentleman home in 
such a hurry, and why he brought a police officer with 
him? 

Amos. It is all a mystery to me. The officer let out 
something about an elopement, but Mr. Barr silenced him 
before I could learn what it meant. 



Lost and Won. 



Lacy. Ah, I understand. He came to prevent an 
elopement. I see the fine Italian hand of Madam in that. 
Well, well, she little knew that her precaution was useless. 

Amos. What do you mean ? 

Lacy. What dreams are made of, nothing. Did the 
anxious father subside after I left? 

Amos. Only to be aroused again when dear little 
Bessie informed him of her choice. . I was treated to an 
iced shower bath, and did not resent it. It is hard, 
Colonel, for a proud old Virginian to bestow his only child 
on a mudsill, a greasy mechanic, as we are called down 
South. 

Lacy. Never mind, Amos. That will come all right. 
Have you followed my directions? 

Amos. To the letter. 

Lacy. Written Mr. Barr that you have discovered the 
thief and can put him in possession of his lost millions ? 

Amos. I have. 

Lacy. Asked him to meet you here ? 

Amos. I have. 

Lacy. Telegraphed to the police headquarters for an 
officer ? 

Amos. I have. Now, Colonel, I have obeyed your 
orders as I was wont to obey them in camp and on the 
field. But may I not know something more of this busi- 
ness ? I do n't know why, but I feel strangely disquieted. 



Lost and Won. 183 

Lacy. Possess your soul in peace, my boy. I am 
putting you in a way to win your bride and a marriage 
portion of twenty-five thousand dollars, that being the 
amount offered for a recovery of the money. 

Amos. But why not trust me with the details? 

Lacy. It is not necessary, and I fear you will disar- 
range my plans. When the officer arrives and Mr. Barr 
is present, all you have to do is to order the arrest of the 
man I shall designate. 

Amos. All right, sir. 

Enter Bang. 
Bang. Colonel. (Saluting.) 
Lacy. Sergeant. 

Bang. Female at headquarters, wishes to see Colonel. 
Lacy. Request her to walk here. 
Bang. All right, sir. (Exit.) 

Enter Helen. 

Lacy. Well, my dear, to what am I indebted for this 
second visit. 

Hele?i. Business, not pleasure, you may be sure. So 
you did not elope last night? 

Lacy. Not so much as I expected to. My intentions 
were honorable, but there was a slip twixt cup and lip. 

Helen. In the shape of an indignant father and the 
police ? 



184 Lost and Won. 

Lacy. For which I am indebted to you. 

Helen. Certainly, you defeated my elopement; I 
intervened in yours. Turn about, hubby, is only fair play. 

Lacy. Learn, then, that your interference was not only 
uncalled for, but it came too late. At the last moment the 
little girl discovered that she loved some one better than 
your late husband, and so declined the match. 

Helen. You lost the bride, and with the bride, the 
million. 

Lacy. I lost both. 

Helen. Why, hubby, you are not as facinating as you 
once were. 

Lacy. I believe not. And, before the day is out, I 
will be of so little value, that even you will not stoop to 
pick me up. 

Helen. I do n't know about that. But what is it you 
mean that is so desperate? Clip your whiskers? Wear 
your hair esthetically ? Turn politician and be returned to 
Congress? Come, tell me. I am dying of anxiety to 
know. 

Lacy. It is very simple. It means only that I throw 
up my hand. Abandon the contest in this attempt to hold 
on to another man's money, let the consequences be what 
they may. I have played and lost. I purpose paying like 
a gentleman. 

Helen. Ned, I am amazed. I may say I am disgusted. 



Lost and Won. 185 

Why, what has come over you to bring about such a 
change ? 

Lacy. You won't understand me, Nell, but I may as 
well tell you. I never was fitted by nature or education 
for the role I have attempted. All this wealth; all my 
success in business; all this luxury with which I am 
surrounded, have failed to yield me a moment's enjoy- 
ment. There is a suicide called the suicide of crime that 
kills the soul and tortures the life left until life is hell. 
You don't understand this, of course. 

Helen. Oh, bother your high talk! Drop that and 
drive on. I am interested. 

Lacy. Well, life was bad enough ; but when I came 
to know my victims, it became intolerable. 

Helen. Because you loved this girl ! 

Lacy. No, not that altogether, though I do love her. 
But listen. If in my game for fortune, I had encountered 
the average lot — hard cheeked and harder hearted people 
— I could have nerved myself up to carry on my villainy. 
But, when I came to know these innocent and inoffensive 
people ; to know that I was tramping the life out of this 
helpless old gentleman and his guileless daughter, I could 
not bear it. And when to this is added the fact you had 
coalesced with that scoundrel and I was to live by your 
joint consent, I concluded that life was not worth the 
living. 

16 



1 86 Lost and Won. 

Helen. See here, my penitent friend. There is a part 
of your interesting confession that is not true. 

Lacy. What part ? 

Helen. Wherein you say I coalesced with that scoun- 
drel. I am doing business on my own account — no con- 
nection whatever with the house over the way. 

Lacy. I have his word for it. 

Helen. And his word is not worth a North Pacific 
'bond. 

Lacy. He expects to sustain his charges by appealing 
to your testimony. 

Helen. I think he will be kept busy taking care of 
himself. 

Enter Bang. 

Bang. Colonel. {Saluting. ) 

Lacy. Sergeant. 

Bang. Party answering to the name of Barr — Miss 
Hester and Miss Barr — are at headquarters asking for the 
Colonel. 

Lacy. Say I will be in. 

Bang. All right, Colonel. {Exit.) 

Lacy. Excuse me, Nell. 

Helen. Why, most cheerfully. Go to your fascination. 
(Lacy e?iters house. Enters Buckthorn cautiously.) Well, 
my sweet- faced friend, are you here ? Where are the 
officers ? 



Lost and Won. 187 

Buckthorn. I came a train ahead that I might see you. 
Will he come to terms ? 

Helen. Not a term. He is busy this minute transfer- 
ring all his property to the rightful owner — that old Vir- 
ginian. 

Buckthorn. The devil, he is! We must stop that 
somehow ! You know when once we show our hands — 

Helen. Very dirty hands! 

Buckthorn. Our power is at an end. We make 
nothing. 

Helen. I know — a blackmailer is like a bee — loses his 
sting in stinging. 

Bucktho7-n. I dare not be seen talking to you. Would 
you mind stepping this way where we would not be ob- 
served? 

Helen. Not the least ; rather think my character 
would be imperiled by being seen with you. Lead the 
way. (Exeunt.) 

Enter from house Lacy and Amos. 

Lacy. {Aside.) And now I am as poor as I was five 
years since, poorer, for then I stooped to crime. Now, 
my dear fellow, for your part ? 

Amos. " My part," what is that, Colonel? 

Lacy. In a few minutes, the police you have sum- 



1 88 Lost and Won. 

moned will be here, and it is your unpleasant duty to hand 
me over as the criminal. 

Amos. To — . What do you mean for Heaven's sake ? 
What does this mean ? 

Lacy. It means a melancholy fact. The man you 
loved, looked up to and so long obeyed is a common crimi- 
nal. And it will be your duty to give me up. 

Amos. My God. I — I give you up. I^will not do it. 

Lacy. What ! not to gain an independence ? Not to 
win the beautiful girl who loves you ? 

Amos. What ? Turn on my comrade — the man who 
faced death with me, who has slept under my blanket and 
shared my food ! Did you nurse me to make a traitor of 
me ! And then to mention her ! Damn it ! I could kill 
you where you stand ! What do you mean ? You damned 
scoundrel, do you mean to insult me ! Why do you do 
this? 

Lacy. I meant, I meant {after a pause), I thought I 
was punished. You speak, my dear boy, as if I had a 
choice. I have none. The fates are closing my doom 
about me, and, even if I could, I would not escape. 

Amos. And why ? Oh, Colonel, reflect. 

Lacy. Why? When the time comes that a man is to 
lose his self-respect and live by the consent of others, life 
is worthless. But I have no chance. 

Amos. None ? 



Lost and Won. 189 

Lacy. Two bloodhounds are on my track — one a male, 
the other a woman. One may kill, frighten or even pay 
off a male blackmailer. But a female blackmailer is as 
frantic in her malice as a scotched snake. She will sting 
herself to poison you. 

Amos. But why select me for this horrid task ? 

Lacy. Amos, I did not mean to insult you, lad, I was 
only trying to do justice. It is my whim to gild my evil 
life with one good deed. You do me a favor, Amos. 
Now, stand firm, and, when the officers demand the crim- 
inal, point me out, and Bessie and the twenty-five thousand 
are yours. I think they are here. 

Enter from the house, Elder Barr, Bessie and Aunt 

Hester; from right, two police officers ; left, Helen. 

Elder Barr. This is satisfactory so far as we have pro- 
gressed. Now, for the thief. 

Bessie » Aunt, we arc not needed here. 

Elder Barr. Yes, my daughter, I wish you to see the 
criminal who has wrought us such -wrong. 

First Officer. (To Amos.) We are here on your sum- 
mons. What are we to do ? 

Lacy. (To Amos.) Rouse up man! Do your duty. 

Enter Buckthorn. 
Helen. You want the rascal ? Well, here he is — Mr. 



190 Lost and Won. 

Wingait, alias Buckthorn, alias Beckwith. Arrest him ! 
{Officers lay hands on Buckthorn.) 

Elder JBarr. What, my overseer ! I suspected as much ! 
Buckthorn. None of this now. None of this. I am a 
witness. 

Helen. Certainly you are; the best in the world. At 
least you were in Indiana. I can testify I saw you dig up 
the treasure and cart it off. 

Buckthorn. This is an infernal conspiracy. You will see. 

Helen. Certainly, we shall, when her gracious Maj- 
esty, the Queen of England, gets done with you. 

First Officer. Henry Wingait, alias Buckthorn, alias 
Beckwith, I arrest you as an escaped convict from Australia. 

Buckthorn. I throw up the sponge. You've got me. 
Move on. (Exeunt officers with Buckthorn.) 

Amos. Thank God, I have escaped! 

{Lacy.) {To Helen.) Why Nell, you amaze me! 

Helen. Of course, I do. No great compliment. It 
takes very little to maze your simple, sentimental soul. 

Lacy. But how did you accomplish this ? 

Helen. Quite easily. When I first saw that villianous 
face, I knew — I felt it in me — that it had not been carried 
to this time of life without some deed that justified God's 
writing on his face. I hurried to police headquarters and 
asked to inspect the Rogue's Gallery. I found hurdreds of 
weak faces and a few wicked ones of our native land. It 



Lost and Won. 191 

was not until I reached the distinguished foreigners that I 
found the photo of our friend. 

Lacy. Well, you are as clever as you are good. I am 
in love with you. We will marry again. 

Helen. Not necessary. Your decree of divorce is a forgery. 

Lacy. Is it possible ? (To Elder Barr.) Mr. Barr, 
you owe your return to fortune to this brave fellow. 
Without him — and your daughter — I would have done 
nothing. He is one to cherish and love. You see Miss 
Bessie will second me in that. 

Bessie. Yes, father, we-are plighted. 

Barr. What ? give my only child to a mechanic ? 

Lacy. Never fear, Colonel. The shame of labor went 
down with slavery. The paper caps are coming to the 
front. They rule our country politically, now ; ere long 
they will rule it socially. 

Barr. Well, my children, you must determine, I sup- 
pose, for yourselves. An old man's head gives way to 
young folks' hearts. Be happy. 

Lacy. And, Amos, avoid temptation and the Lord will 
save you from evil. 

Helen. And remember, if you fall, it is never too late 
to mend. Be virtuous and you '11 be happy. If there are 
any old saws from ancient copy-books you can think of, 
here is the place to put them in. If not, we will to break" 
fast, for I am as hungry as a wolf. 

Curtain. 



A KING'S LOVE. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Edward IV, King of England. 
Richard, Duke of Gloucester. 
Lord De Greville. 
Sir Marmaduke Woodville. 
Cardinal St. John. 
John Shore. 
Whithold, Court Jester. 
Master Martin. 
Friar Bungay, Court Astrologer. 
Jane Shore. 
Lady Alice. 

Margery, Maid to Lady Alice. 
Lords, Citizens, and Monks. 



ACT I. 

Scene: Hall of Jane Shore's house in London, quaintly but 
plainly furnished. Glass doors back, opening on balcony, beyond 
which can be seen housetops covered with snow, with leafless 
branches of trees between. Lady Alice and Sir Marma- 
duke Woodville discovered; Lady Alice with book in her 
hand. 

Sir Marmaduke. Upon my soul, fair dame, it seems 
to me 
A burning shame, that you should dim your eyes, 

(192) 



A King's Love. 193 

Such sweet eyes too, o'er musty books, when you 
Should be at court, amid the courtly throng, 
The fairest of them all. And now, confess, 
Do not those little ears long, woman-like, 
For lover's vows and courtier's flattery ? 

Lady Alice. I have such loving vows within this book, 
Far sweeter than the love of selfish men, 
Who flatter to deceive, Sir Marmaduke. 

Sir Mar. By the mass, I thought those solemn books 
Held naught but prayers and meditations. 

Lady Alice. You do mistake ; now listen while I read 
One such. (Reads.) 

When o'er the frosty plain and hill, 

The feathery cloak of winter lies ; 
When from the north the winds blow chill, 

And rain falls freezing from the skies, 

We all do know, that 'neath the snow, 

The tender violets 'gin to grow, 
To bloom by brooks and woods along, 
When frost and sleet and snow are gone. 

When maiden's brow is pure and white, 

And marble-like her bosom lies, 
When naught of love may her delight, 

And suitors meet but cold surprise, 
17 



194 -A King's Love. 

'Neath rounded bosoms, white as snow, 
Love's tender passion 'gins to glow, 

To bloom on lips to lover's kiss 

When life is love, and love is bliss. 

Sir Mar. And those be books, small wonder, dame, 
Our holy men are found so fond of them. 

Lady Alice. Should read, Sir Marmaduke, and learn 
a world, 
Now dead to you, of strange delight, close hid 
Between these somber covers. 

Sir Mar. Me read! by our blessed lady, but I can 't; 
Nor cared I to till now. Gramercy, dame, 
But I was trained to write my name in blows 
On iron-potted heads, to stride a steed, 
And hold a lance in rest. The books were left 
To God's anointed younger brothers, dame, 
Who, having scant inheritance below, 
Seek, through their lore, for goodly things above. 

Lady Alice. And more's the pity, gallant Sir; for see, 
Some day a stronger arm in wrath will strike 
Thine iron-potted head, and crack the skull 
That can not read, beneath. Then thou wilt find 
Thy younger brother taking precedence, 
And something worse befall thee. 

Sir Mar. Nay, nay, for I do pay the church her dues, 



A King^s Love. 195 

And never trust my skull in deadly fight 
Till duly shrived. If Satan sieze me then, 
Upon my heart I wear a relic, dame, 
Blessed by His Holiness the Pope, you see, 
That Satan feeling that will let me drop. 

Lady Alice. Such course were wise in Satan. Strange 
it is 
That he who came to teach us peace on Earth, 
Should have such following of fighting men. 

Sir Mar. Yea, of a surety most strange it is ; 
For I do note that all these bloody wars 
Receive the sanction of the holy church; 
But yet I note a thing more strange, fair dame. 

Lady Alice. And what be that, Sir Knight ? 

Sir Mar. I do observe that all these ladies fair, 
Who shrink and shriek if they do see one drop 
Of blood, will give their hands, and eke their hearts, 
To wed the biggest butcher of us all. 

Lady Alice. Most true, Sir Knight, for we, in truth, 
are weak ; 
So weak of body, and I fear, of head, 
We seek protection from the strong and brave. 

Sir Mar. Would you could think me, lady, strong 
and brave ! 

Lady Alice. That is your fair repute abroad, good 
friend, 



196 A King's Love. 

No man may question that and live at all. 
What care you then for my poor thoughts ? 

Sir Mar. Bluntly, then, I 'd make my heart and arm 
Your strong protectors. Nay, hear me out, 
As best I may, for I am rude of speech ; 
No courtier, lady, breathing silken words, 
My voice was roughened to the roar of fights ; 
My hand made hard by brand and sword and lance, 
Where man meets man to struggle unto death. 
I love thee, Lady Alice — there, it's out! 
I think of thee by day, Pardi ! of nights; 
I can not sleep for thinking of thee, dame. 

Alice. It is not well, Sir Marmaduke, to speak 
Me thus. Your words are insults in this house 
Where I am ward of Mistress Shore. 

Sir Mar. Be not so hasty, dame, but hear me out. 
I offer thee my heart and hand and all I do possess. 
Is it insult then to call thee wife — 
My Lady Woodville ? 

Lady Alice. I do beseech, my friend, you pardon me, 
That I mistook your wooing ; I thank you now 
For compliment so courtly. But I am 
Far too young for so much honor. 
I'm scarce fifteen, Sir Knight, and alas! 
There lies between us two a grief so wide 
No love may bridge it over. 



A King's Love. 197 

Sir Mar. But if I find that bridge, sweetheart, will you 
Trust to my guidance and come over to me? 
What is this chasm that I can not see? 

Lady Alice. They call me Lady Alice, and I 'm told 
Am daughter of a knight who died in war 
Against his king, and so lost life and all. 
Before 1 can remember Mistress Shore 
Did make provision for me, 
And as a mother I have clung to her. 

Sir Mar. Now, speak me fair and say you ill strive 
to love. 

Lady Alice. Give me space to think. 

. (Enter Whithold unperceived.) 

Sir Mar. I ask no more; now bid me, love, to do 
Some desperate deed that I may prove my love. 

Lady Alice. I have true proof in loving thee. 

(Sir Marmaduke is about to kiss Alice, when Whithold 
drops his bauble between them.) 

Sir Mar. Knave, I have a mind to crack thy skull ! 

Whithold. A riddle — a riddle — why is that an empty 
threat ? 

Sir Mar. Go to. I have no mind for riddles ! 

Whithold. Which means he hath a mind — a mind to 
crack my skull. Now, lady, solve my riddle. Why was 
that an empty threat ? 



198 A King's Love. 

Lady Alice. For that it had no meaning, good Whithold, 
It was empty of intent. 

Whithold. Fair, very fair, but not the thing — try again. 

Lady Alice. Alas, I can not. 

Whithold. Then learn, the threat was empty, for that the 
skull he would have cracked is empty. But give me 
thanks, I stopped thy dalliance, for the handsome Duke of 
Gloucester and the liberal Lord De Greville, but now dis- 
mounted at 6 the portal and would have been an audience 
to your cooing. 

Lady Alice. I take my leave, Sir Marmaduke. 

Whithold. By my Lady, but you can not. 

Lady Alice. And why not ? 

Whithold. Take your leave ? Why all he has of mind 
and heart you carry with you. T'will not fatigue you 
much. 

Lady Alice. Saucy knave, it were ill manners to say 
you lie. 

(Exit Lady Alice.) 

Whithold. Since when hath it been ill mannered to lie 
with a lady ? 

Sir Mar. Look you, good jester, you may jibe these 
courtiers 
As you will, but give me space, for I am quick at 
Blows, and brook no insult. Take my measure, knave. 

Whithold. I did, Sir Knight, when the French count in 






A King's Love. 199 

tournament last spring did hurl thee to the dust. Thou 
measures! five feet ten. 

Sir Alar. Fool, the fault was in my steed. 
Why comest here between me and my Lady Alice ? 

Whithold. Thy wit is halting as thy horse, brave knight. 
Where find you lovers that folly comes not between ? 

Sir Mar. But you did lie. The Duke of Gloucester 
Comes never to the house of Mistress Shore. 
{Enter Duke and De Greville.) 

Whithold) Then thy eyes must fail thee as did thy 
horse, 
For see him here. 

Duke. {To pages.) Say to Mistress Shore the Duke 
of Gloucester 
And the Lord de Greville are in waiting. 

(Exit Page. Exit Sir Marmaduke.) 

De Greville. This is not to my liking, Duke. 

Duke. There are few things, my lord, upon this earth 
Fashioned to our liking, else we 'd be 
Content below, nor long for heaven. 

De Greville. It shames me, duke, that I, a baron, 
A peer of England, should come here to bow 
Before a harlot, pleading for my rights. 

Duke. Hush, hush, my lord, these walls have ears ; 
The trees about here bear the strangest fruit, 
And many a tall fellow lies shorter 



2oo A King's Love. 

By a head for words less sharp than these. 
The king, my brother, hedges' in his rose 
With ugliest sort of thorns. 

De Greville. Time was when England's king was 
hedged about 
By noble hearts of barons brave — 

(Whithold blows his penny whistle; De Greville 
starts.) 
What 's that ? 

Duke. {Laughing.) Naught, De Greville, but our 
jester here, 
Piping like a shepherd to a startled ram. 

De Greville. He should be hanged. 

Duke. Most likely. 

De Greville. She lets us wait, that we may feel her 
power. 
S'cat, it angers me to see this beggar ride 
Above her betters with such insolence. 
I could cuff her now. (Whithold whistles again; 
Greville starts. 

Duke. Nay, do the devil justice, good my lord, 
There is no ostentation in the dame ; 
She might have titles, palaces, and lands — 
Our majesty is liberal to his loves; 
But she declined them all, and wisely so. 
Unpainted power she prefers to shams 



A King's Love. 201 

O'er guilded. Power is safe, and to the wise 
As sweet, when least offensive. She remains 
Plain Mistress Shore. And lo, these many years 
Has governed England in her cunning way. 
(Aside.) If I can strike her down I will, 
For mine own better purpose. 

De Greville. What can his majesty discover in 
A thing so low and common as this woman 
To fascinate and hold him ? (Whithold whistles.} 

Duke. I cry you, mercy ; but you do mistake, 
As do the common herd who call her witch. 
She 's most uncommon, rest assured, my lord. 
When first the king beheld her was when she 
Stole to his presence in the hour of night, 
To tell of Warwick's treason, and he saw 
The fairest being God e'er set on end 
To win the hearts of men. She saved his life, 
And then his kingdom ; for her graceful head, 
Woman's as it is, and wondrous fair, 
Holds well the brain of man. Hark, she comes. 
Now press your suit. (Aside.) And get your knuckles 

skinned, 
You venerable ass. 

(Doors back are thrown open, and Jane Shore appears 
surrounded by suitors presenting petitions, .) 

Jane Shore. I cry you, mercy, good my friends, 



202 A King's Love. 

I can not hear you now; for see you not 
His grace the Duke of Gloucester and with him 
The Lord De Greville ? Welcome to my house, 
Your grace, and you, my lord. My poor place 
Is honored by your presence. 

Duke. I salute you, dame, and well it glads my heart 
To see that Time, like all your friends, awaits 
Tenderly upon you. 

Jane Shore. A compliment, most courtly duke, and 
now 
What may I do to woo you here again ? 

Duke. The Lord De Greville seeks your favor to 
His present suit, fair dame. He asks that you 
Do use your influence with the king to grant 
Him certain rights which he '11 explain. 

De Greville A very simple matter, dame. The courts 
Do now deny me, and I ask the king 
To grant me power to enforce the tax 
For fish caught in the Thames and on the coast 
Within my own domain. 

Jane Shore. Master Martin, you but now did speak 
me 
Concerning this same right. 

Martin. An' may it please your ladyship, I did. 
These fishermen are poor — I speak for them ; 
If to the king's levy be added now the Greville tax, 



A King's Love. 203 

As claimed, it will reduce them all to beggary, 
And so destroy the trade. 

Jane Shore. What say you, Lord De Greville ? 
De Greville. I claim my right, these knaves dare not 
deny. 
What is 't to me their starving ? Let them starve. 
I claim my right. 

Jane S/iore. But if they starve their fishing comes to 
naught. 
W T here then your right ? 

De Greville. It is a lame excuse the dogs set up 
To 'scape the payment of my honest dues. 

Jane Shore. I fear not, my lord; I know the class 
perhaps 
Better than you, for I was of them once, 

De Greville. And what are they to us — this rabble 
That once wore iron rings about their necks 
In token of their servitude ? 

Let them starve, I say. As we progress, God's wot, 
They will dispute our titles next arid seize 
Upon our castles. We must tramp them down. 

Jane Shore. God gave them stomachs, good, my 
lord ; 
Same as a noble's stomach, strange to say. He gave 
Them brain to think and beating hearts to love. 
The cold does smite them as it does a lord ; 



204 A King's Love. 

The hot sun makes them sweat as sweats a lord. 
And were they trampled down to death, my faith, 
The lord would starve, for from their weary toil 
Comes his white bread and all he does enjoy. 

De Greville. Why this is monstrous, Mistress Shore ; 
You do forget yourself. 

Jane Shore. Nay, I remember but too well, my lord. 
I beg your pardon, but you pray to one 
Of those you do oppress. It is my shame 
I 'm not more worthy of their confidence. 

De Greville. The shame 's on our side 
That England's nobles should be forced to sue. 
Who doth confess herself unfit 
Begs pardon of the rabble. 

Jane Shore. Now have a care; I may be all you say, 
And yet your peer, my lord. 
You can not seek my house with insult, sir, 
E'en under cover of his grace the duke, 
And 'scape the punishment due the man 
Who offers insult to a woman anywhere. 

(Cries of " the king" "the king." The door thrown open. 
Enter Edward and suite.} 

King. How now, my brother, Gloucester and De 
Greville here, 
Paying their court to Mistress Shore? 
Why, Mistress Shore, your comely face is flushed ? 



A King's Love. 205 

Your eyes flash fire. What disturbs my friend ? 

Jane Shore. Your friendship, good my liege ; that is 
enough 
To justify the insult that this lord 
Seeks mine own house to offer me. 

King. Now, by St. George ! and have I sunk so low 
My crown gives no protection to my friends ? 
Down, sir, down ! and crave your pardon 
Of Mistress Shore. Dost hear me, man? 
But falter now an instant and thy neck 
And lands shall answer. 

(De Greville kneels and kisses the hand of Jane Shore.) 
Now, Mistress Shore, a few moments 
Of thy cheer and company. 

{Exeunt King, Mistress Shore, and all save Duke of 
Gloucester, De Greville, and Whithold. De Gre- 
ville remains kneeling, as if stunned.) 

Whithold. Let folly help thee up as folly threw thee 
down. 

De Greville. (J?ising.) Out, fool. 

Whithold. Nay, be not so hard upon thyself. 

Duke. A sorry mess you 've made of suing, man. 
By St. Paul but the dame is sharp. 
I never heard a tongue so like a knife ; 
She cut thee deep, De Greville. 

De Greville. And I will be avenged. 



206 A King^s Love. 

What! a De Greville, and thus put upon 
By a harlot, a beggarly shrew, a — 

Duke. Hush, man — hush; you 'd be hanged. 

De Greville. Was it well, your grace, to lead me on 
To such indignity ? But I '11 be avenged. 

Duke. Peace, man; 
'T was your ill temper that you stumbled o'er, 
Not my advice. You should have spoke her fair. 
Gad, smiting a tigress in her very den 
Is no child's play. 

De Greville. But I '11 wring her neck. Vengeance ! 

Duke. I prithee, bark less, 
That you may have a chance to bite. 
You want revenge. 
Ah ! softly now, see where it comes 
In your very hand, like to some simple bird, 
That settles gently in a woodman's trap. 

(Lady Alice crosses the stage in cloak and hood, prayer- 
book in hand.) 
Go you to mass, fair maid ? 

Lady Alice. Ay, to mass, your grace. 

Duke. When angels pray they pray not for themselves, 
For they are perfect; therefore, in thy prayers, 
Fair angel, think of me, alack ! 
Ask pardon for my many sins. 



A King^s Love. 207 

Lady Alice. And were your life as happy as your 
speech 
There were no need of prayers, my lord. {Exit.') 

Duke. See you that damozelle ? 

De Greville. My eyes are not so dim but I can see 
So plain a thing as that. 

Duke. So plain ! Go to. The fairest maid 
In all the kingdom, and as shy as fair. 

De Greville. It is the Lady Alice. What of her ? 

Duke. You look upon the heart of Mistress Shore, 
Put your rough grasp on that and note 
How Shore will writhe. 

De Greville. Her pet, her plaything, her adopted maid ! 
Bah ! " There is no good in that. 

Duke. Do not deceive yourself; she is no pet, 
No child adopted. I have seen 
Motherless women waste their affections 
On dogs, on cats, on monkeys, or on birds, 
But never yet upon a human being. 
I have watched with care this Mistress Shore, 
And read her inmost soul. The tigress softens 
When that cub is near. Be that girl glad, 
And Mistress Shore lights up like to a lantern ; 
But be she sad, and bright eyes darken then, 
Till all the world can read the mother there. 

De Greville. A daughter by the king? 



208 A King's Love. 

Duke. Oh, no; some older love, I doubt. 
But there 's your coin of vantage, man 
Seize her as hostage — hold her in your den 
Till Shore capitulates, which soon she '11 do. 

De Greville. It shall be done, if in the doing, duke, 
I die. I will have vengeance, duke — I will — 
And swiftly, too. I kneel before the world 
To such a thing as that ! God's wounds ! 
I'll be avenged, though forty kings 
Stood in my way ! (Exit.) 

Duke. Of all the fearful beasts that range the fields 
The ass is one most dangerous — to himself. 
He serves my purpose well, for I did woo 
This dainty bit of maidenhood, and got 
My wooing sent me back in scorn. Alack, 
Next to my love I most enjoy my hate. 
How England sickens of King Edward's reign ; 
A reign of slothful pleasures, that denies 
Life to the nobles, while the commons wax 
Most insolently fat. A spark may set 
The realm aflame, and I — why I may find 
Some fitter work than making silly love 
To silly maids, who see no line of grace 
In a crooked back, e'en when 't is carried by 
His graceless grace the duke. (Exit.) 
Enter Jane Shore, Sir Marmaduke, d7?</ Whithold. 



A King's Love. 209 

Jane Shore. What sayest thou, good Whithold ? 

Whithoid. I come to offer thee my cap and bells ; like- 
wise my staff and all I do possess, as the biggest fool in 
all the land. 

Jane Shore. And why, you jester ? 

Whithold. For thy folly that o'ershadowed mine — 
the purest folly, with no alloy of wit. Oh, take my place. 
You need the license of a fool for better protection to thy 
head. 

Jane Shore. Surely thou hast resigned thy place, 
For all this tirade hath no spice of wit. 

Whithold. I had wit enough not to offend, as thou 
hast done, the ugliest noble of the realm. Guard well 
thy path, good Mistress Shore. 

Sir Mar. When the fool ends, good dame, I fain 
would speak with thee concerning Lady Alice. 

Jane Shore. And what of her ? 
{A cry heard without, then clash of arms, an alarm bell, and 
attendants rush on the stage. ) 

Jane Shore. What is the meaning of this tumult ? 
Whithold. {Looking from window.') De Greville's 
men-at-arms do carry off the Lady Alice from your very 
door. 

Jane Shore. To her rescue ! Hurry to the king J 
Aid me, Sir Marmaduke. My poor pet ; 
My Alice — 
18 





ACT II. 


Scene: 
iscovered. 


Same as in ist act. Whi 



210 A King's Love 

Sir Mar. Leave the task to me ; it is my right. 
Look to your mistress. 

(Jane Shore staggers back, as if to fall.') 

Jane Shore. Pay no heed to me ; I need no aid ; 
Help my pet, my poor little pet. 

{Falls back in chair, as if fainting, as Sir Marmaduke 
exit hurriedly.) Curtain. 



Whithold and Margery 



Whithold. Upon my bauble, Margery, but thou pleas- 
est the eye ! Thou art fair to look upon. By the mass, 
but I believe thou art pleasant to handle and sweet to taste. 

Margery. Go to, Master Whithold. You do make 
game of me. 

Whithold. Would I could make game of thee ; then 
would I capture thee, and eat thee. Better so, for the 
lover that eateth not his mistress, lives to repent. Margery — 

Margery. Master Whithold. 

Whithold. Knowest thou why the giants eat their 
virgins ? 

Margery. Marry, I know not. 

Whithold. Marry ! Thou answereth without wit. Thou 
dost stumble on thy meaning — marry. 



A King's Love. 211 

Margery. But why Master Whithold ? 

Whithold. She sayeth marry, and yet asks me why ! 
Simple maid, sweet maid ! Would I were a giant. 

Margery. But make answer; I have much curiosity 
to know. 

Whithold. The simple maiden, the sweet maiden hath 
curiosity. Yet is curiosity an evil. Curiosity did tempt 
Mother Eve to taste the forbidden fruit. Margery, would'st 
taste the forbidden fruit ? 

Margery. Go to. I ask thee why do giants eat their 
virgins ? 

Whithold. Then learn, oh simple maiden. The giants 
eat the virgins, fearing that if the virgins live to be shrewish 
wives they will eat the giants. 

Margery. And yet thou wishest to be a giant. 

Whithold. It was a silly wish ; I fain would eat thee, 
for thou art sweet. But I have no fear. Giants are large 
of body and weak of mind. Prefer I to be small of body 
and large of mind. Margery, I would marry thee — make 
thee my shepherdess, and under the- hawthorne tree, in the 
sweet summer time would we — 

Margery. What, Master Whithold ? 

Whithold. Pipe to our silly sheep. Thus {blows his 
penny whistle) — 

Margery. Pipest thou no better than that, Master 
Whithold, and the sheep would run from thee. Heigh, ho ! 



212 A King's Love. 

Whithold. Why sighest thou, simple maiden? It is no 
compliment to my powers of entertainment. 

Margery. Alas, my good Mistress Alice was, thou 
knowest, seized upon and carried away but now by armed 
men. 

Whithold. And, by the mass, the armed men will be 
only too glad to fetch her home again. Mistress Shore 
is angered, and the King is vexed. Rather would I find 
a pot of gold than be in the leather soles of these same 
men-at-arms, or their old miserly lord. Here comes Mis- 
tress Shore and our Lord Cardinal. Seek we the lord, 
the lawyer, or the doctor, when down and troubled — and 
at no other time. Come, sweet Margery. Beauty and 
Folly will retire together. {Exeunt.) 

{Enter Jane Shore and Cardinal St. John.) 

Jane Shore. 'T was good of you, Lord Cardinal to come 
So quickly to me in my dire distress. 

St. John. 'T were yet more strange for me to hesitate. 
You would expect the priest — whom first you knew 
A poor servant of the Church, upon the Thames, 
Toiling where squalid poverty held reign, 
Himself one scarce remove in wretchedness 
From those he sought to teach — 
You would expect, my friend, to have that priest 
Come quickly to you when you called for him. 



A King's Love. 213 

Why not the Cardinal, for to your aid 
I owe my most unworthy elevation ? 

Jane Shore. That 's rank hypocrisy, my friend, 
And all unworthy of you, for my aid 
- Were then of smallest value, e 'en at court, 
But for your learning, zeal, and eloquence ; 
And well you have repaid my little help. 
You won my soul from error. Ah ! you know 
I was a Lorrilard, and oh, my friend, 
This life were madness now, but for the hope 
You hold before me of God's forgiveness. 
Much as I love the King, and much this power, 
Through which I do some charity, my days 
Are days of sorrow, and my nights run through 
In darkening horror and remorse. 

St. John. You do not overestimate your sin. 
God forbid that it I should condone. 
Why suffer you at night, my child, 
More than by day ? 

Jane Shore. I do not know, but' when the night comes 
down, 
And darkness woos to rest, I can not rest. 
Sleeping or wide awake, my mind goes back 
To that once happy home. I see, I hear 
My noble husband — brave, kind-hearted John ; 
I see the sunlight on the humble floor, 



214 A Ki?ig's Love. 

I hear the bird without, I feel the peace 

That lives, be e 'er the lot so hard, where life 

Is innocence — for lo ! within its cot 

In roseate dreaming sleeps my little babe ! 

I took the sunlight from that happy home, 

I took the warmth from out the pleasant hearth, 

I left the door wide to desolation. 

The house the wife should guard is home no more. 

St. John. Your morbid fancy does exaggerate, 
For, with your husband dead, the home is dead. 

Jane Shore. I can not make him dead, though true it is 
When banished from these shores, for that he was 
A Lorrilard, for that same cause 
He took up arms in France, and soon we heard 
He died in battle ; but I can not make him dead ; 
His living presence haunts me still the same. 
In every breath I draw I feel him near ; 
I must give up this sort of life, or die. 
I pray you, then, to use your influence with 
His Majesty, the King ; get his consent 
To my withdrawing with my Alice now 
To some far-distant convent, where to hide 
Under another name, and so to pass 
From memory of man, and sin and shame. 

St. John. Your wish shall be my law, poor friend, 
How fares your Alice ? I do learn but now 



A King's Love. 215 

The sinful old De Greville tore her away ; 
And from your very portal, as she came 
From mass. 

Jane Shore. Too true, but the brave Woodville res- 
cues her 
Within the hour. 

(Cries of "The King." Doors thrown open. Enter 
Edward.) 
He is here ! Oh ! press him now. 

King. You sent a hasty summons, Jane. 
Our Cardinal here ! — well met, your grace. 
The news we get from Rome, but now, 
Is far from pleasant, for it says 
His Holiness the Pope favors 
Our enemies of France. 

St. John. I feared as much. 

King. You feared as much ! Now, by God's wounds, 
We thought to have a Cardinal 
Whose power at Rome would serve us well, 
In matters such as these. 

St. John. Your majesty would have me speak 
Frankly in presence of your minister, 
Mistress Shore? 

King. Since when has this outspoken grace 
Grown so modest ? Out with it man, 
Let insult have full sway. Our minister, 



216 A King's Love. 

Good Mistress Shore — forsooth ! 'T is rather bold 
To gather up the scandal of the court 
And hurl it in our teeth. 'T is well, your grace, 
Your priestly petticoats protect you. 

St. John. And is it well for one so great, 
So wise and brave as Edward King, 
The first unquestioned King of England, 
And that through his own prowess, thus to shrink from 
And grow offended at the truth, 
When uttered by a friend ? 
For he alone is brave, who dares to face — 
And face it calmly — an unpleasant truth. 

King. I beg your pardon — I was vexed ; 
Then tell me plainly as you will, 
- What is the ill that shadows us at Rome ? 

St. John. 'T is feared you 've lost your zeal, my liege, 
For holy church. You have, of late, 
Pardoned those wicked heretics, 
The Lorrilards, and it is known at Rome — 
A truth I may not contradict — 
The influence that brought this ill about, 
Is sinful in itself, a scandal too, 
His Holiness may not favor. 

King. Now, by my crown, I swear — 
Jane Shore. My liege — Edward— My King— hear 
me! 



A King's Love. 217 

This good man speaks the truth ; 
I pray you patiently to weigh his words, 
For there is wisdom in them — nay, my King, 
Behind them lie grave dangers to your state ; 
I see them gathering, dark and ominous. 

King. I am Edward Plantagenet and have no fear ; 
For that I have no fear am I a king — 
The first unquestioned King of England, 
As thou sayest truly. You seek to come 
Between me and my love. She saved my life 
And risked her own, when friends were few, your grace, 
And slow to act. To her wise head I owe 
Since then, the quiet of my reign. Go now, 
And tell his holiness, the Pope, that she 
Is Queen — my Queen — and here I do defy 
France, Spain, and Burgundy combined, 
And I will see this England wet with blood 
Before I brook such insult as this act 
Of insolent interference. 

(Cardinal moves as if to leave.*) 

Jane Shore. Stay, your grace. 
Is this the recompense, my King, 
For my poor love and service ? Think — 
You do not put yourself, but me, in front 
To meet the scorn, the biting scorn, the wrath 
Of all the world, and I am but a woman ; 
*9 




2i8 A King's Love. 

No king for men to fear, but weak and helpless. 

Ah ! good, my King, let me go hence 

To some obscure retreat, where I may pray 

Forgiveness for my sins, and heaven's aid 

For you. 'T is for your good, and oh, my King, 

For mine, for I am sick at heart 

And weary of this strife ; I can not, dare not 

Bear it more. 

St. John. My liege, I take my leave. You have, oh, 
King, 
In this fair friend, the wisest counsellor, 
And in this last request the crown 
Of all her good advice. {Exit.') 

King. You weary of me, Jane ? 

Jane Shore. Ah ! No, my King, I weary of the load 
That I have carried, lo these many years. 

King. A load — What load ? 

Jane Shore. Of sin and shame. 

King. Is it not brightened by my love ? For thine 
Would I commit much sin, my Jane. 
Nay, do I not carry much the larger part ? 
My spouse, Elizabeth, and her pious friends 
Leave me scant peace of mind, or rest 
Of body either. You have no husband 
To snarl and carp, and so to make the home 
More dismal than it was. 



A King^s Love. 219 

Jane Shore. So long as I could serve you by my love, 
My love was at your service. Now 't is changed. 
I am a burden. Your enemies 
Wax strong and insolent, and all 
Because of our relation. Ah ! let me go, 
My King. 

King. Yes, for a little while, we will deceive 
The knaves, and have it widely blown about, 
That you have taken refuge in a convent, Jane. 
Ah ! as I rode hither, my good brother, 
The Duke of Gloucester, in De Greville's half, 
Asked me the hand of Alice, for it seems 
The miser is infatuated with the maid, 
That he, like to another Pluto, carried off. 

fane Shore. Edward, my master, you will give denial 
To this montrous thing. 

King. And why should I refuse ? The girl 's in luck ; 
My Lord De Greville is old and miserly. 
Avarice has made him rich, old age, i' faith, 
Leaves him scant time to hoard his gains, and then 
He '11 leave the wench a widow — handsome, young, 
And merry too — for some gallant to love. 

Jane Shore. Edward, my King, have I asked much of 
you, 
In all these years of loving servitude ? 

King. Asked naught, my Jane. You might have had 






220 A King's Love. 

For asking, titles, wealth, and station ; 
But you put these away, remaining here 
Plain Mistress Shore. 

Jane Shore. And then, at last, I ask a little thing- 
Give me my Alice. 

King. Against the girl's own good ? Now, sweetheart, 
pause ! 
There is not a daughter of the noblest house 
In all the land, but would accept 
And think herself most fortunate. 
He's rich and noble — short of life — 
A few years and the wife 's a widow, puss. 

Jane Shore. Each year an age of torture ; 
Each year an age of degradation and abuse. 
We sell to servitude her bloom of youth ; 
We bargain off her innocence, 
Her loving trust in human life, 
And think to recompense in gold 
The loss of all that makes our life so precious. 

King. God's wot, but this is troublesome ! Why, Jane, 
I did offend this baron grievously, 
When I made him to kneel before the grinning court 
And humbly sue for pardon at your feet. 
There 's discontent throughout the land, 
It simmers to a boil. One flash the more 
May set the cauldron boiling, 






A King 's Love. 221 

When Warwick fell, the brain went out, 
But left the life, and fangs, and poison. 
These Barons are not wise, but well they know 
That instigated by the Church at Rome, 
All Europe gathers to a bloody war with us. 
I must be prudent, and my little minister 
Will not throw troubles in my way. 
I must appease De Greville. 

Jane Shore. Ah, Edward, my loved King, you do not 
know 
The sacrifice you ask ? I '11 go my ways, 
Give all that 's left of life to solitude 
And prayers— but leave me Alice \ 
Good my King — 

{Noise without — Enter Sir Marmaduke and Alice.) 

Sir Mar. Mistress Shore, I here restore your ward, 
All safe and well — a little ruffled, dame, 
As a poor bird would be that but escapes 
An ugly beak and claw. Your majesty. 

King. Now man, who made thee sheriff, and gave 
thee 
The right to interfere in this ? 

Sir Mar. Your Majesty, when on the field 
Of Gladsmoor, sire, you dubbed me knight, 
And made it my duty to protect the weak, 
And, wherever found, attack the wrong. 



222 A King's Love. 

Pardon, your majesty, when we possessed 
With little trouble Lord De Greville's house, 
I caught the man escaping with these papers. 
I choked them from him, for he seemed to care 
More for the papers than the maid. 
My fair betrothed tells me, for she reads, 
These be of grave importance to your majesty. (Gives 
papers. ) 

Jane Shore {embracing Alice) . 
My little one — my precious — and cruel men 
Would take thee from me. 

Lady Alice. Right glad was I, dear mistress, to escape. 
I feared no one would dare to rescue me. 
But there is treason in that gloomy house ; 
The Duke of Gloucester — 

Jane Shore. Hush ! my child. 

King. (To Marmaduke and Alice.) Give me leave, I 
have a word 
With Mistress Shore. (Sir Marmaduke and Alice exeunt.) 
This treason is more forward than I thought. 
Here is a letter from our enemy of France, 
And here 's a list of traitors covering all the land, 
And here a compact duly signed. 
De Greville knows I have these. While I speak 
Doubtless the horde is rising. Well for us 
We got such timely warning. 



A King's Love. 223 

fane Shore. De Greville should not know you are 
advised. 
Send Hastings to him quickly to consider his request 
As if no papers ever reached your hand. 
Then to the Tower speedily consign the men 
This compact names. 

King. Wise little head, you counsel well. 
If we are not too late — 

(Enter from balcony John Shore.) 
What means this bold intrusion ? 

John Shore. That is a question, King, I well might ask. 
If, in the fiction of the law, a wife 
Remains a husband's property, his home 
A castle. 

King. Who are you, man, that like a thief 
You steal over the wall into our presence? 

John Shore. Your guard denied me entrance at the 
door, 
So I made bold to climb the wall, my liege. 
And for my rough intrusion here, I beg 
Pardon of your majesty. 

King. Who are you, man ? What is your will ? 

John Shore. Ask that woman. 

fane Shore. I do not know him, sire. 

fohn Shore. And have my whitened locks and sunken 
eyes, 



224 A King's Love. 

My cheeks so channeled by my bitter tears, 

My form so bent by load of misery, 

Have these so altered me you know me not ? 

My liege, I am a hated Lorrilard 

But lately pardoned, and to the scorn of men 

I 'm known as Shore — John Shore — 

The husband of a wife used by the King. 

King. And do you seek that wife, old man ? 

John Shore. Nay, my liege. That wife to me is dead. 
She has been dead to me these many years. 
I want no rotting corpse to call my wife, 
For God dissolves the marriage tie in death. 
Death enters with corruption. My wife is dead. 

King. What do you seek here then ? 

John Shore. I come to claim my child, my Alice. 
Her I would take from out this charnel house 
To my poor home. A dreary place, O King, 
And desolate, but pure. 

King. Why, mistress, how is this ? His child your 
child? 

Jane Shore. He speaks but truth, my liege. I could 
not bear 
My child should know her mother as she is, 
I brought her up in ignorance of my right 
But not my love. The father hath the better claim. 



A Xing' s Love. 225 

I pray you leave to us this woeful scene 
Of settlement. 

King. That as you will, for on my soul 
I have work enough on hand. Adieu. {Exit.) 

Jane Shore. I beg you, sir, to stand apart 
But for a little space, that I may say some words 
To this dear child, who needs persuasion, sir, 
To make her leave me. 

John Shore. Be brief. Your words are poison to her. 
Your very presence is a taint. 

Jane Shore. I know 't is so and humbly crave consent. 
(She goes up the stage — she calls Alice — enter Alice.) 
My child, here 's one who comes to us as from the dead, 
Who has the right to take you from me. 

Lady Alice. Sir Marmaduke ? 

Jane Shore. No, my poor girl — more potent than a 
lover. 
One heaven made your guardian in your birth ; 
Your parent, child. 

Lady Alice. Never have I known but one to love, 
Who, loving me with tender, patient care, 
Has made me all her own. 

{Seeks to embrace her. Jane Shore restrains her.) 

Jane Shore. You make my test too hard. Be patient 
child, 
And hear me out. It is my wish — nay, more, 



226 A King^s Love. 

'Tis my command — that you should go 

With this good gentleman, who has a claim 

Far better, higher than mine own. {Aside) For when 

I ceased 
To be a wife, I ceased to be a mother. 

Lady Alice. Madam, I do not comprehend. 

Jane Shore. Ah ! may you never know the anguish of 

the knowing. 
I must be brief or fail. When you were but a babe 
It was decreed that children of the heretics 
Should be taken from their parents and reared 
Within the bosom of the mother Church. 
To save you from that fate, your mother, child, 
Did give you to a friend, a Catholic friend. 
In all the cruel ills that followed them, 
Robbed, banished, and abused, the scorn of men, 
The wrath of government, and the cruel persecutions 
Of an outraged church, the parents knew 
That you were safe, and took comfort in the knowledge. 
It was long after when I found you, child, 
And took you to my home and heart, 
To see you grow to womanhood, 
Pure amid impurity. I took you up an angel, 
And an angel now I give you to your father. 

Lady Alice. Ah! do not send me from you. I do 

know 



A King's Love. 227 

But one to love. You are to me a mother — 
My mother. (Embraces her!) 

Jane Shore. My child ! my child ! Ah me ! but this is hard. 
In parting with you I do part with life, 
And all is dark before me. Go, my child, 
And put your cloak about you, for 'tis cold — 
Ah ! bitter cold — without. 

{Exit Lady Alice. During this scene John Shore 
gradually draws near.) 

John Shore. I never thought to call you by that name 
Made sacred by the Lord. But he forgives, 
Why should I not forgive ? Jane, come to me. 
We will forget the past. My home is poor 
And humble, yet it is a home. There you 
In penance, and we both in prayer, may find 
Forgiveness for the guilty past. 

Jane Shore. Ah ! no, my friend, it may not be. 
For I have lived in peace with her 
For that she did not know me. Now 
To stand by my mine own hearth, and feel 
The horrors of a tainted mother, feel 
The pitying anguish of her loving heart, 
To have you suffer all the scorn of men 
Because like Christ you could forgive 
An erring wife — ah ! no. The torture were too great. 
I can not — I can not. 



228 A King 's Love. 

John Shore. You bear the cross, yet shrink in mean- 
est fear 
From the great sacrifice through which to win 
Forgiveness of your loathsome guilt. Live on, 
Live on in guilded rottenness. 

Jane Shore. Do not curse me, John. 

John Shore. Christ said, let him without sin cast 
The first stone. I without sin do cast 
These stones at thee, 

Thou tainted mother and adulterous wife, 
Thou whited sepulcher, thou living lie ! 

Jane Shore. Oh ! mercy, John. Have mercy. 

John Shore. The mercy that thou gavest me 
I do return with interest. 

By the blighted hearthstone and the ruined home, 
I lift my voice to God and pray for vengeance. 
When thine awful hour comes, as come it must, 
May all my blasted years of bitterness and shame, 
May the long, slow agony of a broken heart, 
Be crowded into seconds of thy dying life. 
By God forgotten, may thy hell-haunted soul 
Sink hopeless in thy agony. 

Jane Shore (who has sunk to the floor during this curse 
rises wearily.) 'T were better you had left me 
dead. 
Your words are blows that stun, and that is all. 



A King's Love. 229 

You have no curse more awful than my conscience, 
No doom more dreadful than to be myself. 
When your life was spared, my fate was seale*d. 
My sin has found me ere I did confess my sin 
And. got forgiveness in repentance. Now 
Shall I hear ringing in my hollow ears, 
Too late, too late, forever. 

John Shore. Amen, amen, amen. 

Jane Shore. You should have spared your impreca- 
tions, 
For they will settle on your own unhappy head. 
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, 
The blows you strike reach to your heart, 
For we are one whatever fate betide, 
And from this out, the pale affrighted face 
Of her you love will haunt you till you die. 
She will walk with you in your walks, 
Sit at your board, sleep in your bed, 
And the poor face in pitiful appeal 
Will cause your heart more anguish 
Than your wrath. 

(Enter Lady Alice in cloak and hood.) 
Ah ! this is bitter, my child. 

Lady Alice. My mother ! (They embrace. John Shore 
madly tears Lady Alice away and drags her to the door.) 

Curtain. 



230 



A King's Love. 



ACT III. 

Scene: Banqueting hall in house of Jane Shore; a table 
spread as for a feast. On the right a smaller table with silver 
pitcher and two goblets. Deep recesses or arched ways on both 
sides. Whithold and Margery discovered. 



What say you, Master Whithold ? 
That the government sups here to-night. 
By my troth, but it is a small supper for so 



Margery. 

Whithold. 

Margery. 
large a body. 

Whithold. The government, Margery, stands six feet 
two in its stockings, and is well proportioned. 

Margery. You mean His Majesty the King? 

Whithold. His Majesty the King, since the death of 
Warwick, King Maker, is the government of England. 

Margery. I do see thy meaning. 

Whithold. Much praise to thy feminine sagacity; and 
yet, if thou seest my meaning, it is more than I see. For 
if the truth could be told, without getting the truth in the 
stocks, the government of England is not his most sacred 
Majesty, but her most pleasing grace, Mistress Shore. 

Margery. So it is said; and yet she has not power to 
retain sweet Lady Alice, who is gone from us this day. 

Whithold. And, is it true, fair Margery, the supposed 
dead heretic, John Shore, took her home ? 



A King's Love. 231 

Margery. Aye, good Master Whithold, and with much 
weeping. And Sir Marmaduke was much angered; while 
Mistress Shore is as pale as my smock. 

Whithold. Pale as thy smock, good Margery,- is well 
said. Faith now, can I see Mistress Shore's very paleness. 
And the King, Margery, sups here to-night, and Lord De 
Greville to conclude differences, doth furnish the enter- 
tainment, Margery. 

Margery. Master Whithold. 

Whithold. Were I Mistress Shore, I should not care 
to eat Lord De Greville's viands, nor drink of his wine. 
Beware of the enemy bearing gifts. Thus did the Greeks 
give to the Trojans a wooden horse, and the wooden horse 
gave birth to armed men, that did burn and kill. 

Margery. A most scurvy trick. 

Whithold. A joke on the Trojans. Give Mistress 
Shore a hint to neither eat nor drink. If the Lord De 
Greville, who holdeth so fast to a coin that the coin doth 
cry out, cares to poison the government of England, good 
Margery, let him have his will; but I would fain see your 
mistress escape acquaintance with that dame, we all know 
too well, called Misfortune. 

Margery. That I will; for let the world say what it 
may, she is a good, kind mistress. 

Whithold. Misfortune ? 



232 



A King's Love. 



Margery. No, indeed; Mistress Shore. But you are 
sad to-day, good Master Whithold. 

Whithold. Yea, verily; I am down as a chicken-cock 
on a damp day, as full of spleen as a sick dog, and as 
suspicious and irritable as a jealous wife. Now could I 
prophesy evils to the land, of sudden deaths, civil dis- 
orders, and great wars. Now harken — 
When friars fat rich food deny ; 

When lordly bishops drink no wine ; 

When merchant's wives alone do lie; 

And Hebrews eat forbidden swine; 

When misers give the poor their gold; 

When honest men are put in place; 

And when to maidens truths are told; 

When lovers lie not to the face ; 
When bakers give to bread its weight; 

When tapsters water not good drink; 
When honor serves the king and state ; 
When women tell us all they think ; 
When thieves no longer purses steal ; 

When robber turns to saintly priest; 
When honest traders honest deal ; 

When modest worth is not the least ; 
When mothers truly see their young ; 
When widows plan not to deceive ; 



A King \s Love. 233 

When scandal holds its busy tongue ; 

Then will good people cease to grieve. — 
And let the final prayer be said; 
For, on my soul, the devil's dead. Amen. 
{Enter Friar Bungay.) 

{To Margery aside.) Here is one, good Margery, who 
will make us sport — Friar Bungay, the court astrologer. 
Good even to you, Father Bungay — an' thou readest the 
stars. 

Bungay. Yes, lively Master Whithold. It is given to 
me to read the stars, and in them the destiny of men. 

Whithold. And many a wise astrologer, who reads the 
stars, falleth most scurvily in a ditch. 

Bungay. He who reads the stars falls not, merry Master 
Whithold. 

Whithold. Seeth he the ditch in the stars ? 

Bungay. Of a verity, my son. 

Whithold. Then are the heavens ditched ? Most vile 
heaven that hath bogs in it. 

Bungay. You take not my meaning. 

Whithold. I will take any thing of thee, friar, but thy 
blessing and thy drugs. 

Bungay. Yet have I cured many sick. 

Whithold. Of a truth ; for the dead are cured of their 
disorders. 

Bungay. Go to, go to. I would have thee grave. 



234 A King's Love. 

Whithold. Go to my grave ? Thanks, friar ; it serves 
my purpose best to remain alive. Friar, art thou versed 
in palmistry ? Canst thou read in the lines of the hand 
the future, good father ? 

Bungay. Yea, verily. That is not so deep an art as 
the language of the stars. 

Whithold, Look, then, upon my hand, good Friar 
Bungay, and see if thou findest a rope or a rich widow. 

Bungay. Give me your hand, merry master, and I 
will make effort to find short shrift or fair widow. (Whit- 
hold passes Margery's arm under his right, and presents her 
hand to the friar) Nay, good Whithold, court jester to 
the king ; but thy hand is soft and fair as that of a woman, 
and it hath strange lines. The line of love is much 
broken: as if thou hast been deceiving and deceived, 
good jester ; jilted and jilting, my jester. (Margery strug- 
gles, but Whithold holds her); and I see a child, but never 
a father. I find no rope, nor yet a widow; but, my soul 
to heaven, Master Whithold, that is strange — thou wilt die 
in childbed. 

(Margery breaks away and assaults Friar Bungay. 
She knocks off his tall hat, glasses, and wig, showing him^ to 
be far younger than he appeared.) 

Whithold. A miracle, a miracle ! Father Bungay, 
thou art restored to thy youth by the quick hand of the 
little witch. 



A King's Love. 235 

Bungay. A pest on thy pranks. I'll have thee 
hanged, Master Whithold ; and, as for you, mistress, 
there be stocks in the pillory for thy heels. 

Whithold. Come, Margery — come, fair Margery ; thou 
art a greater witch than he a wizard. He did father thy 
child, but thou didst restore his youth. 

(Exit Whithold, with Margery. Friar Bungay re- 
arranges his dress.) 

Bungay. If a man hath trouble come to him, let him 
be assured a woman fetches it, or a woman sends it. 
Since the day the first woman listened to the serpent, and 
set Adam to robbing an orchard, she hath been possessed 
of the devil, and brings naught to innocent man, such 
as I, but mischief. 

(Enter De Greville.) 

De Greville. Art here! 'Tis well. Now, listen, 
man: 
This strumpet, Shore, hath all our secrets, 
And thou, who read'st the stars, must learn of me. 
She holds a halter for thy neck, an ax for mine, 
And death to nearly all that's left 
Of England's barons. 

Bungay. Then, my lord, we better get out of this. 

De Greville. Tush, man. She hath not yet revealed 
the plot; 



236 A King's Love. 

But holds our papers, like a cunning witch, 
Suspended o'er our heads. 

Bungay. What, then, my lord ? 

De Greville. Death, friar; death. The dead reveal 
no plots. 
Hearken ! The king sups here to-night. 
He hath invited us, which proves 
He knows not yet of our intent. 
It is his wont, at parting with the witch, 
To pledge her health in wine. Her cup 
Must hold that poison you have brewed, 
That works so deadly sudden and 
Leaves no trace behind. See, friar, 
To thy hand — there are the goblets and 
The wine. See that thou failest not ; 
Or, if you do, your neck's not worth the hemp. 

Bungay. Never fear, my lord. I live to do your 
bidding. 

De Greville. And die if you but fail. Now go — 
{Exit Bungay. Enter Queen Elizabeth, disguised.) 
Whom have we here ? 

Queen. You may well ask, De Greville. {Showing 
her face.) 

De Greville* The Queen, and in this house and guise ? 

Queen. Yes ; and from this house I do not go, 
'Til I have seen this witch. De Greville, 



A King's Love. 237 

I fain would look upon the power 

That lives so strangely twixt my lord, and me, 

His lawful wife. 

De Greville. But the King comes here anon. 

Queen. Aye ! aye! anon, and none too seldom, man. 
I will find the secret of this witchery 
That shames our court. What is the power 
That wins a king such as our Edward was ? 
Enter Jane Shore. 

Jane Shore. Good even, Lord De Greville. You are 
kind 
To pass so soon our ugly differences. 
Whom have we here ? 

De Greville. A city dame, good mistress, who would 
speak, 
She tells me, with you alone. 
For that I take my leave a little space. (Exit.) 

Jane Shore. I 'm at your service, dame — what may I do 
To aid you ? 

Queen. Madam 't is said of you — among 
Our humble city folk — you do possess 
Strange and mysterious power over the hearts 
Of men. That by some subtle charm or drug 
You win all minds to do your will, 
And be most happy in the doing. 

Jane Shore. In other words, I am a witch ? 



238 A King's Love. 

Queen. Even so. And as I am unfortunate, 
Most unfortunate, I make so bold 
To ask your aid, if you may give it me. 

Jane Shore. I fear you overestimate my power. 
What is the ill you suffer, dame ? 

Queen. I have a husband who did love me once, 
Loved me so well he brought great trouble 
To himself — for I was low of birth, 
And, lifting me to share his high estate, 
He periled all he had. And now 
He cares naught for me — nay, 't is worse, 
He gives that to another I should have, 
And leaves me to mourn alone. 

fane Shore. Alas ! poor dame, the ill you grieve 
Is common to our race. When we may find 
Means to prevent the fever, stop the plague, 
Control e'en death itself, we may escape 
This sickness with the rest. 

Queen. You speak as one who never suffered — who 
Never outwatched the stars, with hungry heart, 
listening for steps that never came, 
Or coming, brought more sorrow in their tread 
Than tears of solitude and shame. 
You can not know the anguish of the heart 
That longs for love once had, yet has no more. 

Jane Shore. The ill each suffers from is life's great ill, 



A King's Love. 239 

One's grief is measured by no other grief, 
Selfish, unreasoning sorrow can not see 
The agony of others. Doubtless, now, 
Good dame, you 'd punish sorely 
The object of your faithless husband's love. 

Queen. Marry would I. 

Jane Shore. And yet she did not seek his love, 
Nor track him down, nor lie in wait, 
Nor beg, nor plead, nor threaten — worst of all 
She never sought to win him by the words 
Made dangerous in their sympathy. 
And yet what punishment is hers : 
She knows the day must come when she 
Will suffer like desertion, and the while 
A sense of guilty degradation weighs her down. 
The love man gives his wife looks up, 
Half love, half adoration, while 
His guilty love looks down, and like 
The sun's bright rays when intercepted, 
They turn to shadows e'er they touch the earth. 

Queen. Faith, Mistress Shore, to hear you plead 
One would suspect some truth were told 
In stories from the court. 

Jane Shore. It is not well, good dame, to seek my aid 
And stab me with your scorn — and yet I know 
Grief makes us all unjust, I pardon you, 



240 



A King^s Love. 



And heaven knows if there be one 
Whom I have wronged, upon my knees 
I 'd beg forgiveness. 

Queen. What of the Queen ? 

Jane Shore. Not of the Queen, but of the wife, 
Men make their Queens, but God alone 
Doth crown the wife — she sits a sovereign in 
The peaceful home — her throne the heart of him 
She calls her lord, her subjects her sweet babes, 
Her scepter the humility of love, 
That sways by softest yielding. 

Queen. And such a home was mine until this wretch 
Did come between my lord and me. And now 
I promise you, if e'er she falls 
Within my grasp, I '11 be as hard 
And cold and pitiless as the axe itself. 

Jane Shore. And suffer retribution for the wrong you 
do; 
Leave vengeance to the Lord, who cares for all, 
And brooks no interference. 

Queen. And have you then no charm — no subtle drug 
That I may use to win him back again ? 

Jane Shore. You strangely move me, dame, I fain 
would try 
To aid you if I could. Hold, here 's a charm 
To me most precious, for it was a mother's gift, 



A King's Love. 241 

(Taking amulet from her bosom J) 
And I have worn it ever next my heart. 
Do you so wear it, and when your lord 
After long absence doth return again 
Then press it to your breast, 't will give you strength 
To greet him kindly. This, good dame, 
Gives potent force to this most subtle charm 
That is destroyed by sullen looks 
And ugly words. 

And, now, good e'en to you ; 
When next we meet I trust your ill 
Will all have passed. 

Queen. (Going and aside.) When next we meet, when 
next we meet, 
The witch hath put a spell on me, 
I 'm in a daze, and not myself. 

{The King enters ■, and the Queen hastily muffling her 
face makes hurried exit.') 

King. Who was it, Jane, that hurried hence 

In such unseemly way. As she did pass 

I caught a gleam fierce as a tigress, 

And shot like lightning at me from her eyes. 

Jane Shore. Naught but a city dame, poor thing. 

She came to me for spell or drug 

To win her truant husband back again. 

King. These women nurse their little sorrows till 
21 



242 A King^s Love. 

They swell to mountains in their own esteem. 
A city wife, forsooth, and she hath griefs 
Like to a Queen. Well, wisest little friend, 
We have invited the conspirators, 
At least all those that we could reach, 
With pleasant invitation, here to sup 
With us to night. They little dream 
The entertainment that awaits them. 

Jane Shore. Is it not strange, my liege, that one at 
least — 
That one De Greville — does not e'en suspect 
The storm that's brewing. He must surely know 
You have his tell-tale papers. 

King. Not so, my Jane, for from a spy I learn 
He thinks you hold this damning proof 
In terror o'er their heads. 

{Enter De Greville and sundry other lords.) 
Welcome, good friends, most welcome here. 
Why, De Greville, this is kind indeed, 
You are a Christian man to thus forgive 
And put my faith to blush — the smitten cheek 
Is turned, that on the other side 
Good Mistress Shore may kiss, not smite, 
And no Judas kiss, my lord. 

De Greville. Your jest my liege, hath in it 
Something of a sting. 



A King's Love. 243 

King. Tush, man — 't is but a jest, a sorry jest. 
Come, good my lords, now gather round the board; 
You are most welcome. 

( They seat themselves, and as they do so, a monk, in gown and 
cowl, coming from the arched ways on each side, places himself 
behind each guest, while the tramp of troops is heard without.) 

King. Before you, gentlemen, is the feast 
Prepared by our De Greville ; behind, 
Is service of our own. {They rise.) 
Nay, keep your seats, it will be long 
Ere you may sup again. The ancients, lords, 
Were wont to have at banquets such as this 
A grinning, eyeless skull, which said — 
Laugh and be merry, for to-morrow death. 
You start; this is not well, for you, my lords, 
Do hold in trust the honor of old England. 
To your wise heads and patriotic hearts 
We look for aid and comfort at all times. 
And it were ill for us for you to fail, 
Now that our enemies combine to do us ill. 
Lord Anthony of Scales, our kinsman too, 
In whose behalf we periled once our crown, 
May we not trust in you ? Lord Dorset, too, 
Another kinsman we have favored much. 
Lord Willoughby, we spared your wide domain, 
When, through your father's treason, it was lost. 



244 



A King's Love. 



John RatclirTe, you did us service once, 

And by that token should be true as steel. 

And the wise and rich De Greville here. 

Why these are friends we have to sup with us ; 

You should be joyous, yet you look disturbed. 

And can it be we are in error, lords ; 

Are your strange looks but mirrors of your hearts? 

Are we surrounded here to-night by foes, 

Not friends ? We heard as much. A little bird 

Did whisper in our ears broad discontent 

Was on the land, for that we favors cast 

On a poor lady, who, unlike you all, 

Had served with zeal the crown, nor asked reward 

For her rare service. Yet to-night you see 

We treat such whispers as vile slanders. 

You do not eat nor drink. Why is it, friends, 

You treat with such discourtesy our feast? 

De Greville. We hope, my liege, after this mask is o'er 
To eat with better appetites. {Murmurs about the table.) 

King. After this mask is o'er we fear, good friends, 
You '11 have small need of appetites. 

De Greville. Now come we to the point. Good my liege, 
We all are gentlemen. Whether w k e live or die, 
We have a right to treatment fitting such. {Murmurs.) 

King. Gramercy man, but you are hard to please ! 
Who talks of dying at a feast like this ? 






A King's Love. 245 

You all are honorable, sirs, of course, 

And this a feast in which to harmonize. 

Then fill your glasses, bumpers all, we drink 

To our fair hostess. Fetch here our wine. 

{During this speech Friar Bungay steals in, poisons one 
of the goblets, that Whithold, watching him, changes}) 

Knaves, why do ye loiter ? Our wine, at once. 

(Bungay seizes the goblet and gives it to the King.) 

What, our astrologer turned a Ganymede ? 

This is a jest indeed ! Why gentlemen, 

You will not pledge ; then, Mistress Shore, drink we — 

Safe journey to the tower, and the block 

And comfort to them in the land beyond. (Drinks.) 

Tush, loving subjects, in our hands we hold 

Proof enough of treason to behead 

A thousand such as you. (After a pause.) 

Say to my brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, 

His prisoners are ready. (Staggers,, and clutches at the near- 
est monk.) 

I am not well ; I pray you bear me hence. 

What pain is this that clutches at my heart 

And blinds my sight? Gently, gently, friends. (They bear 
him out.) 
Bungay. (Aside to De Greville.) The jester, Whit- 
hold changed the cups — 

The king hath not an hour to live. 



246 A King^s Love. 

De Greville. 'T 's just as well. In Gloucester's hands 
Our heads are more secure. 

(To the company?) His Majesty is sick nigh unto death, 
And in the name of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, 
I do arrest Jane Shore. I call on you, 
My lords, to aid me in my duty. 

{They gather hurriedly about Jane Shore.) 

Curtain. 



ACT IV. 

Scene: Westminster. Jane Shore, Sir Marmaduke 
Woodville, her advocate and guard, discovered. 

Sir Marmaduke. The papers that I seized and gave 
the King 
Held damning proof, you say, of plots against 
His Majesty, now dead? 

Jane Shore. So the king did say to me, 
And after charged it on the lords 
Assembled at the supper in my house. 

Sir Mar. And what became of them ? 

Jane Shore. Alas ! I do not know. My liege 
Did take them with him • when, that night, 
He went from our last supper to his death, 
The papers strangely disappeared. 
I do believe, Sir Marmaduke, 






A King's Love. 247 

De Greville's party, like ourselves, 
Are lost in wonder at their sudden loss, 
For since my short imprisonment 
They 've offered help to me, if I, at once, 
Would give them up those fatal proofs. 
They should apply to Gloucester. 
For some dark reason, 't is my belief 
He holds those proofs as bonds 
Against the ruthless barons. 

Sir Mar. But why charge you with witchcraft, 
And force you to this trial ? 

Jane Shore. The dead alone, my friend, are safe 
With this man, whose malignjnfluence 
Has made him feared by stronger men than he \ 
His gentle manner gloves an iron hand, 
His quiet covers dark and deep designs, 
His smile is winter's sunlight cast on ice, 
Or lightning gleam of teeth the tiger shows 
When its lip it lifts in anger ere it's springs. 
He has the subtle beauty of the snake, 
That terrifies while yet it charms to kill. 
The Duke has done no open wrong to me, 
But I am in his way, and I have felt, 
As nature gives each one to feel 
The presence of its enemy, when he is near. 

{Enter Cardinal St. John and Church dignitaries, the 



248 A King's Love. 

Duke of Gloucester, De Greville, and lords. The Lord 
Cardinal takes the chair, and lords spiritual and lords tempo- 
ral range themselves on either side. Enter Whithold, Friar 
Bungay, and attendants^) 

Jane Shore. His grace, the Cardinal, who knows me 
well, 
Will surely see that I have justice here. 
There is De Faulk, whose large domain 
I saved to him through favor with the king. 
Trouville, too, hath favors at my hand. 
They all, save Gloucester, owe me much.^ 

Sir Mar. The hungry hound forgets the food 
Given him but yesterday. Mistress Shore 
These men are all ashamed of gifts 
From any one, but most of all from you. 

Cardinal. Jane Shore. 
Jane Shore. Your grace. 

Cardinal. You '11 hear the charges now preferred 
By counsel of the state, wherein 
You stand accused of sin and crime, 
'Gainst God and man. For this are we 
Assembled here, to give you trial 
On our most sacred oaths. Hear, then, and plead. 

King's Counsel. {Reads.) Jane Shore, of London, 
we present, as guilty of divers crimes and misdemeanors 
against the law of God, and against the peace and dignity 



A Xing' s Love. 249 

of the realm, to wit : that for the year last past, and many 
years previous thereto, moved by a heart prone to evil, 
and instigated by Satan, she did practice the unholy arts 
of witchcraft, to the confusion and wrong of many honest 
people; that, thus dealing in a deadly art, she wrought 
strangely and wrongfully upon his late Sacred Majesty, the 
King Edward Plantagenet, known as Edward IV., and so 
practicing, his Sacred Majesty living did languish, and 
languishing did die. 

Cardinal. You hear — plead you guilty or not guilty ? 

Jane Shore. Good my lords spiritual and temporal, 
To all these several charges I here plead 
Not guilty, and pray you give me patient hearing. 

King's Counsel. Francis Bungay, friar, stand forth 
and be sworn. (Friar Bungay steps forward.) 

Jane Shore. My lords, and Lord Cardinal, 
If this man be witness 'gainst me, I pray 
That he be heard without the mockery of an oath. 
His hand that he would hold to God 
Is stained with human blood. Nay, more, 
His soul is seared by wickedness too foul 
For such appeal. 

Cardinal. Mistress Shore, we must admonish you 
To be more guarded in your speech. {Confers with King's 
Counsel?) 



250 A King's Love. 

It is her right — the oath is her protection. 
Proceed without it if she so demands. 

King's Counsel. What do you know of defendant's 
practice, 
As set forth in these charges ? 

Bungay. I know that they are true. 

Cardinal. Well, proceed. 

Bungay. For weeks I was an inmate of her house, 
Through favor of His Majesty the King. 
And I do know she had a waxen image 
Of his grace, the Duke of Gloucester. 

Jane Shore. Alack ! what monstrous lie is this ? 

Bungay. In the right arm of this foul thing, 
Did she with desperate curses and deep spells 
Fix many pins to wither and destroy 
His grace's sacred limb. 

Duke. And, by St. Paul, with some success, my lords, 
For see my arm is robbed of its fair shape. (Shows his arm) 
Jane Shore. Your grace, if this be proof against me, 
Then did I cast the spell that made you lame, 
While in your mother's womb. For well 'tis known 
You came forth thence thus sadly marred, for which 
We all lament. Alas ! I was not born 
When that occurred. 

Duke. Are we assembled here to wag our tongues 
In disputations with a noisy witch ? 



A King's Love. 251 

Cardinal. Again, Jane Shore, I do admonish you 
That these unseemly interruptions 
Offend the court and give no aid to you. 

Jane Shore. I am a helpless woman, pleading for my 
life, 
If I mistake, for I am ignorant, 
I pray you pardon me my error. 
My counsel, learned in the law, 
Tells me that I may put all falsehood 
To the question — let its source be what it may- 
For that we English people have no fear 
To calmly face the truth, though truth be death, 
Stand I on English ground, my lords, 
In whose pure soil oppression can not thrive. 
Nay, is it not our boast, well known abroad, 
That in this air of England injustice dies, 
And that we all have equal standing here 
Before the law ? I pray you, then, give space 
To my poor efforts. 

Cardinal. You may proceed. 

Jane Shore. Thanks, my lord. {To the friar.) 
Witness, is not your name, your real name, 
Francis Capello ? 

Bungay. My name is Francis Bungay. 

Jane Shore. Were you not driven in disgrace 
From your good order near to Florence ; 



252 



A King^s Love. 



After, condemned for murder of your mistress, 
And only saved from ignominious death 
By pleading of your privilege ? 

Cardinal. Nay, Mistress Shore, the law which now 
you quote 
Tells us the witness shall not criminate himself. 
Have you no other proof of what you charge ? 

Jane Shore. He carries that, Lord Cardinal, 
Upon his shameless body. 
Bid him but show the court his shoulder. 

(Friar Bungay falls upon his knees) 

Bungay. I cry for mercy, lords, for I was innocent 
And most unjustly dealt with. 

Jane Shore. {Suddenly pulling the gown from Bungay's 
shoulder and revealing the letter "A") 
See, my lords, his crime and punishment 
Are burned into his flesh. 

Duke. God's wounds, gentlemen, it seems 
We 're all on trial save the witch. 
This man is my retainer, and, as such, 
I give him my protection 
Until he hath fair trial. 

Cardinal. Your grace, this is a matter that concerns 
The church. We can not lend its sacred robes 
To cover the hangman's brand. Now, take this knave 
And let him be well guarded. (Exit Bungay under guard.) 



A King's Love. 253 

Jane Shore. And now, my lords, I pray you let me go 
In peace. You see I am no witch, 
But a poor woman, whose fate it was 
To do a service to her king 
Wherein there was much peril. If to wake 
His gratitude for that was witchcraft, 
Then am I guilty of a grave offense; 
But all of you do know that he was kind 
And soft to those he loved, as he was stern 
To those who waked his wrath. His confidence in me 
Is much exaggerated, for you see me here 
A poor woman without so much withal 
To give me daily bread and gowns enough 
To shield me from the cold. And I have striven, 
In my poor way, to aid the more unfortunate 
Who did incur his anger. If to plead for such, 
And, pleading, gain their cause, was witchcraft, then 
Was I a witch. Since when, my lords, 
Have witches turned peacemakers, to smooth the way 
Of rough contention and of bitter strife? 
I, wicked as I am, boast not of alms; 
But none went hungry from my open door, 
Who sought for food or shelter. E'er was this 
The work of witches ? My lords, my lords, 
I pray you let me go in peace ! 

Cardinal. In verity, it seems to me, 



254 -A King's Love. 

There is no reason, lords, to hold Jane Shore 
Longer on trial. Naught has been proved here, 
And I say, let her depart. 

Voices. And I — and I — and I. 

Duke. Hold — not so fast, your grace. 
There is a witness here we may not doubt. 

Jane S/wre. (To Marmaduke.) Alas! what does he 
mean? 

Sir Mar. Some devilish mischief, judging by the grin 
That curls about his mouth. 

Duke. Her Majesty, the Queen, the hope, my lords, 
Of mourning England, awaits without. 
Will you, Lord Cardinal, inform her we attend 
Her gracious bidding ? 

Cardinal. Most readily, your grace. (Exit.) 

Jane Shore. What can this mean ? What darker cloud 
Hangs threatening o'er us? 

Sir Mar. I can not tell. We had the court full sure 
But for this further proof. 

{Re-enter Cardinal, escorting Queen Elizabeth in deep 
mourning?) 

Cardinal. We '11 hear, your Majesty, all you may say 
Concerning crimes with which Jane Shore, 
Defendant here, stands charged. Is it your wish 
The Queen be sworn ? 



A King's Love. 255 

Jane Shore. Nay, nay, my lords, an oath would add 
no weight 
To what the Queen may say. 

Cardinal. Know you this woman ? 

Queen. Much to my sorrow, I did know her long 
As one who had strange power o'er my lord, 
And on that very day he sought my arms to die, 
I visited her home in such disguise 
She did not know me, and in such disguise 
She did confess to me her crime. 
Jane Shore. Your Majesty ! 

Queen. I told her my trouble, still disguised, 
And asked her by what power, charm, or drug 
She won the hearts of men and crazed their brain, 
So that they knew not right from wrong, nor knew 
Their duty to their homes nor their poor wives. 
The witch seemed moved by this. 

Jane Shore. Alas ! my better feelings blinded me 
To the cruel snare right at my wretched feet. 

Queen. Thus moved she gave to me a subtle charm 
Of rarest power, so she said, which I was urged 
To wear upon my heart, and here it is. {Gives charm.') 

Cardinal. Unhappy woman, have you aught to say 
In answer to such fearful proof as this ? 

Jane Shore. Naught, my lord. Her Majesty, the 
Queen, 



256 A King's Love. 

Hath told the truth — naught but the truth— and yet 
Not all the truth. 

Cardinal. How dare you intimate a doubt 
On what you do confess ? 

Jane Shore. I question not, my lord, the fatal proofs 
Now given by Her Majesty. 
I only say, she did not tell you all, 
For all she could not know. Moved by her tale, 
And thinking her some city dame 
Troubled to tears by household misery, 
And while denying still I was a witch, 
To ease her mind, I gave that amulet, 
Which I had worn near all my life, 
Close next my heart, the dearest gift on earth, 
For it was given me, all wet with tears, 
By my poor mother on her dying bed. 
I pray you open it, my lord, and see 
The sort of wicked charm I gave to her. 

Cardinal. (Opens and reads.) "May he, who bade 
the children come to him, be father to the orphan." 
children come to him, be father to the orphan") 

Duke. This is the devil's own; for well we know 
The prayers thus used, are prayers read backward, 
To serve the witch's purpose. 

Jane Shore. I know, I know, my lords — I make 
No further plea. My doom is sealed, 
My days are numbered, and I here accept 



A King's Love. 257 

My shameful death, for deeds I did not do, 
In expiation of the sins I did commit. 
One word, your gracious majesty, 
You have here sworn away my life ; 
I do forgive, for I have done you wrong. 
Moved by your piteous tale, I all forgot 
My proper caution, and I gave to you 
My dying mother's gift, a blessing then, 
That in your cruel hand now turns a curse 
To blight my wretched life. Queen — mother- 
Look to your babes ; see that a mother's prayer, 
Wrung out in anguish, may not be in vain. 
When evil comes to you and them — 
For come it will from God, in God's good time, 
To all who substitute their human wrath 
For his diviner judgment — 
Look to your babes, oh ! Queen. 

Queen. This woman frightens me 

Duke. Tush, good sister. Am I not here? 
May God forget me when I forget 
You or your precious babes. (Exit with Queen.) 

Cardinal. You will make up the judgment, lords, 
And give the proper form to sentence. {They confer.) 

Jane Shore. (To Sir Marmaduke.) Be not so grieved, 
my only friend, 
They do but give to me the common doom. 



258 A King's Love. 

We all must die. What recks it now 
To me that a few wretched days are lost- 
Wiped from the common score ? 

King's Counsel. Jane Shore, hear the sentence of the 
court. It is decreed that you, clad in a sheet, in token of 
your sin, and holding a taper, that all men may see your 
punishment, shall walk with bare feet the streets of Lon- 
don till you die. And no man nor woman nor child shall 
give you to eat or drink, or open shelter to you, on pen- 
alty of death. May God have mercy on your sinful soul. 
{Exeunt Cardinal and court. ) 

Jane Shore. Ah me ! what cruelty is this ? 
To walk a public scorn until I die. 
To die in shame upon the cruel streets, 
As if I were a brute. Nay, worse ; 
The brute excites some pity in its death, 
While I have none. Have mercy on me, Jesus J 
Oh ! grant me strength to die. Why pray for strength ? 
Oh ! take my strength, that I may die full soon ! 
My heart sinks in me, and I shake from fear, 
It is so terrible. 

Sir Mar. These lords be devils in human form, 
And Gloucester is the devil of them all. 

Jane Shore. I did think to die without a moan 
For well I merit death ; but, oh ! my friend, 
This torture is so frightful. 



A King's Love. 259 

Sir Mar. {Aside.) Yet must she see her daughter 
ere she die. 
Mistress Shore, fair Alice waits without, 
"Longing to clasp you in her arms. 

Jane Shore. Alice, my own — take her away. 
Take her away. Let her not see me. 
Ah! never let her know my sort of death. 
Man, if you care for God, take her away! 

Sir Mar. Too late. She 's here. (Enter Alice.) 

Alice. My mother! {Embraces her.) 

Jane Shore. My child ! Why did they fetch you here ! 

Alice. What have they done to you ? Speak ! speak ! 
My heart is breaking. Oh ! tell me now, 
What have they done to you, my mother ? 

Jane Shore. You 're not ashamed, my child, to call me 
that, 
I who have wronged you so ? 

Alice. Ashamed! Why should I be ashamed? 
You did me wrong in that you did conceal 
The mother from me. What have they done ? 
I stood without, and stern old men strode by. 
I saw the queen — her face was troubled ; 
While the cruel duke of Gloucester smiled. 
What have they done ? 

Jane Shore. Naught, my child that's worse than ban- 
ishment 
From you. 



260 A King's Love. 

Alice. But I '11 accompany you, my mother, 
And soothe your cares, and be your patient nurse. 

Jane Shore. {To Sir Marmaduke.) For God's sake 
man, come to my aid, 
Or I shall die. There, there, my child! 
Go with him now. I '11 see you, sweet, anon. 

Sir Mar. Come, my Alice, we must hence. 
We'll soon return. Now, come. 

Alice, I can not. Oh! I can not, {Faints in Sir 
Marmaduke's arms.) 

Jane Shore. One kiss, my little pet, poor little pet ! 
I '11 never see you more. Farewell ! 
Now hasten from me ere she can revive. 
{Exeunt Sir Marmaduke and Alice. Enter Cardinal 

St. John; Jane Shore throws herself at his feet.) 
Oh ! holy father, save me ! Save me ! 
See the Queen straightway. Plead with her 
To grant me speedy death. Tell the Duke 
To give me the rope or block, aught but this 
Most horrible torture. 

Cardinal. My child, 
A woman's heart when plead to by a woman 
Is pitiless as death. The Lord Protector, 
His grace, the Duke of Gloucester, hath in his heart 
That much of woman and no more. 
You plead, I 'm pained to say, in vain, 
For I have prayed them both and prayed in vain. 



A King^s Love. 261 

Jane Shore. Alas ! what may I do, for I am weak 
And full of fears ? 

Cardinal. Put all your trust in Him, who once like you 
Carried his cross amid the mocking crowd, 
So weak, so heavy, and so sick at heart, 
To die as thou must die. But trust in Him, 
And he will give you strength to bear your cross. 
With every feeble step some sin will fall, 
With every pain your soul will rise more pure, 
And death will not be death to you, 
Who thus redeemed will rise to God, 
And with His angels find eternal rest. 

{During the laitet part of this scene the stage has darkened 
into twilight, and as the Cardinal delivers his last speech, the 
moonlight streams through large window back of colored glass, 
bringing into view the cross painted upon it.) 

Curtain 



ACT V. 

Scene: Charing Cross, London. Night. A snow storm. 
Enter Jane Shore, in white gown, bare-footed, and carrying a 
light, followed by a crowd hooting at her. She seems nearly ex- 
hausted. 

Jane Shore. Good people, do not crowd upon me so. 
You frighten me. The stones do wound my feet and I 



262 A King's Love. 

am hungered and faint and so athirst I scarce can speak. 
If you will go aside and let me die in peace, I will bless 
you all. 

First Voice. We want no blessings from a witch. 

Second Voice. A witch's blessing is the devil's curse. 

Jane Shore. I am no witch. The holy cardinal, good 
St. John, will tell you this. I am but a woman, most un- 
fortunate — 

First Voice. Hearken not to her, she will cast a spell; 
she did bewitch the King. 

{Cries, "Stone kerf stone her 7" A rush.) 

Jane Shore. {Cries out.) Oh! God, have mercy on 
me! Oh, please don't! {They hesitate.) Good folk, give 
me a little space and I will die as it is decreed. I am 
nearly dead. You do so frighten me. Alas ! I see not 
well ! I am quite blind and my head swims — but it does 
seem to me that I see faces of those who once asked alms 
of me, when I was rich and powerful. Will they not pity 
me ? Oh ! they will pity me surely, and let me die in 
peace. If I did bewitch the late King, God rest his 
soul, it is for your good. 

Crowd. She does confess — stone her, stone her ! {A 
rush. Enter Whithold.) 

Whithold. Stand back, my masters. What have you 
here? 

First Voice. The witch, Jane Shore. 



A King's Love. 263 

Second Voice. And we will kill her lest she cast a spell 
upon us all. 

Whiihold. In that, most worthy folk, you do your 
bounden duty. But let me teach you how to treat a 
witch. 

First Voice. The King's fool will make sport for us. 
Do it, fool, do it. 

Whithold. {Approaches Jane. Aside to her.) Fear 
not, good mistress, I will protect you. {Aloud.) You see 
this flask, my master. It hath in it holy water from the 
river Jordan, blessed by the Pope. I do but make her 
swallow ever so small a drop {puts his arms around her) 
and then she turneth black, and in a little space will the 
devil come in thunder and carry her away. 

Crowd. Good! good! make her drink, that we may 
see the devil get his own. 

Whithold. But when the devil comes, good masters, 
have a care. He comes in lightning, look you — {aside.) 
Lean on me, mistress — (aloud) and death-dealing thunder, 
and all who have lied about their neighbors are in danger 
{some of the crowd start back, the others laugh), and all who 
have kissed their neighbors' wives will suffer {others start 
back — laughter), and all that steal will die {several start back, 
and the entire crowd gets further from Jane Shore and 
Whithold). Now will I make her drink. Look ye all 
to the east and see the devil come. {They turn, a?id many 



264 A King's Love. 

steal off. To Jane Shore.) Now, mistress, drink; it is 
a cordial that will help thee much. (He puts the flask to 
her mouth and she drinks eagerly?) 

Jane Shore. Alas ! poor fool, poor fool, this act will 
cost thee dear. 

Whithold. Fear not for me. A fool may do, and 
prosper, what a wise man may not look at and live. 
Now wait. Ho, ho, he comes ! See the devil comes ! 
(The crowd runs off.) Ha, ha, ha, the cowards, how they 
run! Now, mistress, eat of this cake. (She eats raven- 
ously.) If I can but hide thee for a time. 

Jane Shore. Ah, me ! Of all my many friends — of all 
who followed, flattered, kissed by hands for favors, this 
poor fool alone is true. 

Whithold. Because he is a fool. No wise man is 
true but to himself, and no woman is true to any thing, for 
the Lord made her a fool that she might bear children. 

Jane Shore. I do feel comforted. But, alas, I must 
die; 'tis so decreed. 

Whithold. Yea, verily, you must die when your time 
comes, as we all die by the decree of heaven. 

Jane Shore. And do you give me hope ? — ah, Whit- 
hold, it is a dismal thing to die as the cruel council or- 
dered me to die, like any helpless brute upon the streets. 
You give me hope ? 

Whithold. Else, had I not given you to eat and 



A King's Love. 265 

drink. Be not cast down, my mistress, your daughter, 
Lady Woodville, weeps the hours away, bidding fair to 
die with you. 

Jane Shore. What sayest thou, good fool — my daugh- 
ter, Lady Woodville ? 

Whithold. I marrily. They have wed in haste, lest 
the old miser, Greville, and the great Duke of Gloucester 
now our Lord Protector, might wish the pretty maiden 
harm. 

Jane Shore. I am amazed — your news is comfort to 
my heart, as your food and drink were comfort to my 
stomach ; now can I die in peace ? 

Whithold. Talk not of dying, mistress ; leave that to 
wiser heads who make to-day sad with troubles of to-mor- 
row. Let me put out your light to save your life, that we 
may steal away unseen. (Noise heard without.') May 
Satan seize me, but they come again. (Soletnn march 
heard approaching.') Nay, 'tis the midnight burial of the 
King. Stand we aside, mistress. The dead King will be 
a means to aid escape. 

(They withdraw. Enter procession ; pallbearers carrying 
the body of the king, followed by guards and preceded by 
Cardinal St. John and church dignitaries, with lighted 
candles and music. They halt, placing the body before the 
cross.) 

Cardinal. Set down your sacred load, 't is meet that we 
23 



266 A Xing' s Love. 

Pause in our solemn duty here beneath 
The shadow of the holy cross of Christ, 
Portal of death to Him and life to us, 
Emblem of power, for by the blood of Christ 
Are Kings anointed who do govern men, 
And we who bury Edward may commune 
Upon his many virtues ere the tomb 
Closes on all that 's mortal of him. Now, 
The sins that lie between his God and him 
Appear before that bar where each must stand, 
All naked and alone, the King uncrowned, 
No better than the poorest subject there, 
To be adjudged. Indeed, more peril comes 
To one who has high trusts ; for it is said 
To such shall strict account be rendered. 
His tomb about to close upon him leaves 
His deeds to chroniclers for coming time ; 
Remembering these, we may well pray to God 
For mercy to his soul. 

He was a man made in a larger mold, 
A King of kingly form and generous mind, 
Slow to resent, but quick to act his will 
And quicker to forgive. Wisdom he had 
With soldierly resolution. In the council, 
Calm and far-seeing — in the field of strife, 
Sudden, deadly, and most conclusive. 



A King's Love. 267 

For we have seen how in his steady reign 
This realm which was a chaos wrought from war — 
Ambitious barons making endless strife — 
He brought to Christain order and a peace 
That spreads its snow-white pinions o'er the land. 
He gave us laws that do protect the weak 
While they restrain the strong. Judges he gave 
To adjudicate by law and justice, 
Twixt man and man. To the holy church 
He large endowments made, while to the poor 
His royal hand and heart were ever open. 
While thus the King we bury in this storm, 
How many, many thousands shivering pray 
For rest unto the soul of him who gave 
Them, living, the means to live. 
Take up the corpse. 

(As they are about to do so, a shriek is heard, and 
Jane Shore rushes on the stage, Whithold vainly striv- 
ing to hold her, and throws herself upon the body.') 

Jane Shore. Edward, oh my King ! my King ! Oh ! 
take me with thee. My cross is more than I can bear. 
They doom me to a cruel death, and yet I can not die. 

{The guards suddenly start forward.) 

Cardinal. Stay ! this is the woman Shore, doomed to 
a cruel death by highest council. She hath taken sanctu- 
ary on the body of God's anointed. About her wretched 



268 A King's Love. 

form the holy Church throws now its sacred guard. Let 
no man harm her more. Move on. 

( The crowd follows the procession, leaving Jane Shore 
lying upon the ground, Whithold near her. Enter John 
Shore, Sir and Lady Woodville.) 

John Shore, Jane, my wife, I do forgive you now. 
Look up poor heart, your husband comes. 
His arms are round you. Speak, my wife ! 
Forgive, as I forgive. Oh ! say that you forgive, 
For I and all the world have done you wrong. 
Jane ! wife ! speak to me ! 

Lady Woodville. Mother — mother! 

Jane Shore. {Pushing feebly away.) Do not crowd on 
me so, 
Good people, I will die as soon as I can. 
But, oh ! let me die in peace. 

John Shore. Alas! she knows us not. Her mind's 
distraught, 
She 's dying with the cold. Quick with the cloak. (Folds 
it around her.) 

Jane Shore. They bring my winding sheet. Then am 
I dead? 
And yet I suffer. Does not death fetch quick relief? 
Oh ! holy mother, here I humbly pray. (Sinks on herhnees.) 
Forgive my deadly sins ; 
Ease me of pain. 



A King's Love. 269 

John Shore. Jane ! Jane ! my wife ! I am your hus- 
band, John — 
John Shore — come back to you. 

Jane Shore. {Staggering up .) John, good husband, 
Take me hence. (Looking wildly around as she clutches him . ) 
Wicked people hunt me down with stones. 

John Shore. Fear not, poor wife. I will protect you, 
pet. 
Look not so fearful. You are pardoned, love. 
They dare not harm you now. 

Lady Woodville. Mother ! see, we are near. 
I have my arms about you. 

Jane Shore. And you will take me hence from all this 
coil; 
These cruel men who carry stones, 
And crowd upon me with mocking jeers? 
They call me witch, my husband, and they seek 
My death. Quick! take me hence, 
For they will come again. Oh ! take me hence, 
To our sweet home hard by the babbling brook, 
Where sunny fields are full of flowers, John, 
And woods with birds. There will we live and love. 
{Starting back) Ha ! what form is this that comes between 

us, John? 
It is the King ! Alas ! I can not go ; 
It is decreed that I with him shall lie 



270 



A King's Love. 



In stony death, 

For that I was his leman when he lived, 
I must be his in death; 
Else there were no pardon for my sin. 
I come, Oh! King, I come! {Falls and dies.') 
Curtain. 



EMOTIONAL INSANITY. 

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT. 



Scene i. A handsome apartment, half drawing-room half 
library. To right, library table with books, writing material, etc. 
Landscape seen through glass door, back. James discovered 
seated lazily in an arm-chair; Susan engaged dusting furniture. 

James. Susan, you look as fresh and delicious this 
June morning as a mutton head dressed in oyster sauce. 

Susan. Is that your best in the way of a compliment ? 

fames. Ah! you hollyhock — you artichoke — you 
cauliflower— 

Susan. See here, Mister Jim, when you go into the 
garden for fine speeches, I 'd thank you to keep clear of 
the vegetable beds. 

James. I must say, you plump partridge of the 
prairies, I ain't much on the botanies; what would you, 
me love ? 

Susan. Well, call me a tuberose? 

James. You tuberose ! 

Susan. A moss bud. 

James. You moss bud ! 

(271) 



272 Emotional Insanity. 

Susan. A lovely tulip. 

James. You are a two lips, by George ! I like that 
better than any. They 're good to taste. The two lips 
they round up like loving rosebuds — are colored like coral, 
and as soft as Lucca's notes. {Aside.) Got that from 
Colonel Bangs' note-book ; he lets that off on every pretty 
girl he meets. 

Susan. That 's beautiful. 

James. But after all, Susan, a kiss is only a surface 
indication — 

Susan. What do you mean by that? 

James. Picked it up in California. It 's what the 
miners say while prospecting. When they find a few 
shiners on top they say it 's a surface indication. 

Susan. You 've been all over the world, and I some- 
times, wonder, I do, how you can be willing to stay in 
such a dull place as this, with such a cross man as our 
old Mr. Brown. 

James. It is a little hard on a fellow — a fellow de- 
signed, you see, to adorn society. We have traveled, 
Susan, we have flirted, we have gambled, and we have 
been most elegantly bored in all parts of the world. But 
for a dense, steady article of bore just give me this vil- 
lage. By Jove, you can't cut it. I wish I could! 

Susan. I am very sorry for you, Mr. Jim. 



Emotional Insanity. 



273 



James. But for you, my rosebud, they might have put 
me in my little bed under the daisies long since. 

Susan. And that is why you stay here ? 

James. Well, yes. 

Susan. But why did you come ? Why did you leave 
society you adorn for this place ? 

Janies. Susan, that is a secret. 

Susan. A secret ! 

James. No, it is more — it is a conspiracy. 

Susan. You do n't mean it ? 

James. A plot — a deep, dark, mysterious plot. 

Susan. Gracious ! Mr. Jim, you frighten me. 

James. I want to. No conspiracy is perfect, Susan, 
without women in it. We'll have two. You swear never 
to betray us. 

Susan. What is it ? 

James. Hold. (Seizes the duster and holds it before her 
in a theatrical manner. ) 

Upon the jeweled hilt of this my trusty sword, 
My trusty sword, you swear ? 
Now you say, "I swear." 

Susan. I swear ! 

James. Pretty well done, that. Did you observe my 
pose, Susan? 

Susan No, where do you keep it ? 

James. Bother ! I mean my posish — thus. Got that 



274 Emotional Insanity. 

from Booth when he affidavies his companions touching 
the spiritual manifestation. 

Susan. But what 's it all about ? 

James. Susan, I came to rob this house. 

Susan. Gracious ! are you a highwayman ? 

James. Not much. But keep it up, Susan, it's good 
practice. When I say "I come to rob," you must throw 
yourself back on your right limb and pose — thus : I come 
to rob. Now you say "Ah!" "Ah" is better than "gra- 
cious," Susan. Now : I come to rob. 

Susan. {Posing.) Ah! 

James. I come to rob this mansion of its priceless 
jewel — the fair Merelda. 

Susan. {As before.') Ah! 

James. To larceny the maid. 

Susan. {As before.) Ah! 

James. To — 

Susan. Hold on, Mr. Jim, this is a little tiresome — 

James. Right up, Susan, we 've had tragedy enough. 
You see I 've been Colonel Bangs' man since the war, and 
we 've knocked about and got on pretty well so long as we 
flirted, but when we fell in love, Susan, trouble began. 

Susan. Why, did you fall in love? 

James. Certainly not till I saw you; but I use the 
"we" there in illustration of our confidential relation to 



Emotional Insanity. 275 

each other. It 's editorial. Well, you see when Colonel 
Bangs spooned on Miss Merelda — 

Susan. What on earth do you mean by spooned ? 

James. Why, Daisy, when a fellow goes for his senti- 
ment in dead earnest, we say he spoons. I do n't know 
why, only it seems simple and sloppy — sort of spoon 
fashion. When my Colonel spooned on Miss Merelda — 

Susan. Our Miss — 

James. Your Miss — why I looked into the business, 
and finding "our Miss" had a little fortune in her own 
right from her maternal grandmother — peace to her ashes 
— and great expectations from her father, old Brown — 
peace to his ashes when he gets 'em — I saw that the spoon 
was gold, and I encouraged it. 

Susan. Very kind of you. 

James. Oh ! I'm prudent. Now the amount of work 
I had to do in the way of notes, bouquets, messages, and 
serenades, nearly put me into a decline. I struck on the 
serenades. I told my Colonel that if he wanted to go 
caterwauling under windows after night, and getting an 
assortment of coughs, colds, catarrhs, and consumption, 
he could go in — but he must count me out. 

Susan. But, Mr. Jim, don't you believe in real love? 

James. Certainly, for flirtation, but out of date in 
matrimony. A gul do n't marry a fellow now. She mar- 
ries a stone front and a carriage. And so a fellow looks 



276 Emotional Insanity. 

out for a bank account and bonds. He marries a rich 
father and posish. 

Susan. I do n't like that. 

James. Oh! don't you? Nor I either. It's all very- 
well for the upper two dozen, but hard on the lower strata, 
so says my Colonel. Now, Susan, you 've seen one of 
these belles — a real highflyer — and what can a fellow find 
to love ? Eh ! She 's one third pannier, one third cotton, 
and one third dyspepsia. 

Susan. Why, Mr. Jim, where did you pick up such 
stuff? 

James. At the Club, Susan. I am a member of the 
Gentlemen's Gentlemen Reunion. But I don't get on 
with my story. My Colonel fell in love with old Brown's 
bank account, and proposed to his daughter — your Miss 
Merelda. Old Brown is peculiar. He called my Colonel 
a fashionable sham — heard something about a little blonde 
— forbade us his house — and then, to cut off all spooning, 
suddenly moved to this country place. 

Susan. Well, what then, Mr. Jim? 

James. As old Brown did n't know me I hired to him 
as coachman, and man-of-all-work, and here I am in the 
house of the enemy, while my Colonel is incog, at the vil- 
lage hotel. Now, how to git the old man's consent, or 
coax the lady love to elope, is the question that agitates 
the country. 



Emotional Insanity. 277 

Enter Merelda. 

Merelda. James, is my father stirring yet ? 

James. Upon the best of my knowledge and belief, 
Miss, your excellent paternal does not stir. When he stirs, 
Miss, the stirring is apt to be heard. 

Merelda. Don't be impertinent, James. Have you 
seen the Colonel this morning? 

James. The Colonel has been hid away under a bower 
of roses in the garden these two hours, where he fights 
mosquitoes, bugs, ants, gnats, and other agricultural pro- 
ducts while waiting for your paternal to take his morning 
vibration. 

Col. Bangs pats his head in at the door. 

Col. B. I say, is the coast clear ? 

Merelda. No, no ! go away — stay away — you must 
not be seen. 

Col. B. (Coming forivard.) Must see you, if I die for 
it. My angel you have no idea of the aching void within 
my heart and the pain in my back I have suffered from 
while living under that damned — I beg pardon — damp old 
arbor in the garden. I see you, and like the sun you ease 
my heart and dry up the dampness. 

James. Come Susan, let 's go on the picket line and 
watch for the approach of the enemy. (James and Susan 
exeunt?) 

Merelda. But were my father to find you here — 



27S Emotional Insanity. 

Col. B. Bother your father ! I do n't ask to marry 
your father — I want you. Let us elope, my darling — 

Merelda. And offend the author of my being ? 
Come now, what would we live on ? 

Col. B. Mercenary girl, have I not my pay as a re- 
tired officer? — lieutenant in the line; retired as brigadier 
and five thousand a year. 

Merelda. You innocent gander! that wouldn't keep 
me in hats. No, some means must be found to win his 
consent, or I die an old maid — or worse, throw myself 
away on a brownstone front in the city — a cottage at New- 
port — all incumbered by the aged banker, Bullion. 

Col. B. Heartless girl ! I see you do not love me. 

Merelda. My dear James, do n't be absurd. Ot course 
I love you. When I found myself the envy of all Saratoga 
because I had your adoration — the handsomest fellow at 
the springs — I returned your affection with my whole 
heart. When we went whirling through the waltz and all 
eyes were on us ready to scratch mine out, I felt that \ 
held in my arms the happiness of a lifetime. And did I 
not tell eighteen girls in the strictest confidence of our en- 
gagement? Did I not cut Fitzpoodle and offend old Bui- ; 
lion — jilt Hamilton Snooks, and give all the time I could 
spare from dressing to you — 

Col. B. Only to throw me off because of your father. 



Emotional Ins a nity. 279 

I see I served your purpose at Saratoga, to be thrown over 
in the rural districts where I am not an ornament. 

Merelda. These are bitter words, my Colonel ; but I 
pardon you — they prove your love. But listen. Do you 
suppose me capable of abandoning my brilliant position 
when by a little patience we can win all ? 

Col. B. I love you so entirely that a home in the 
lowliest hut — 

Metelda. With the gardener's son; and then you'll 
leave me to return in the fifth act in a padded uniform, 
with a grapevine worked up the back and no end of 
rooster tails in your military chapeau, to relieve the bank- 
rupt father and the heart-broken maiden. 

Col. B. Do n't laugh at me. 

Merelda. I can't help it — you are so ridiculous. 
And, my Colonel James, / do n't want to he laughed at. 
I am not willing to have Merelda Brown's brilliant match 
made a farce of. I will have a superb wedding, with my 
father to give me away; a tour of Europe, a house in 
town, and our " cottage by the sea." 

Col. B. And if we fail — 

Merelda. As Mrs. Macbeth remarks to her Colonel on 
a like occasion — we fail. But screw your courage to the 
sticking point, and we '11 not fail. 

Col. B. You drive me to desperation. I'll murder 



280 Emotional Insanity. 

that father of yours — I'll send him the " Daily Globe" 
until he dies in great agony. 

Enter James and Susan. 

James. The enemy approaches — in force. 

Old B. ( Within.') Jim — Susan — where the devil is 
the house ? (All scatter and hide save Susan.) 
Enter Brown with bell-rope in hand. 
Damme if I am not in a white heat ! I 've been pulling at 
this cussed bell-rope to find it a sham — no bell to it — like 
every thing else — all shams — bah ! Susan ! 

Susan. Yes, sir. 

Old B. Do you know that you are confoundedly 
good-looking ? 

Susan. Law, sir, you flatter me! 

Old B. No, I do n't— I do n't flatter any body. I tell 
the truth. A man who flatters is a sneak, coward, and liar 
— bah ! Susan ! 

Susan. Sir ? 

Old B. Come here. (She approaches and he attempts 
to put his arms around her\ as he does, Susan slips out and 
James takes her place. 

James. Did you ring, sir ? 

Old B. I '11 wring your neck, you impertinent — what 
do you mean, sticking your impudent face in mine that 
way — eh ? 

James. Beg pardon, sir — thought you rung, sir. 



^ 



Emotional Insanity. 281 

Old B. No, you did n't ; you can lie like an obituary. 
James. Thank you, sir — rather flatter myself on my 
accomplishments, sir. 

Old B. And you call lying an accomplishment, do 
you? I like that. You're all of the same sort; I can't 
get any one about me but rogues and liars — bah ! the same 
with all the world, bah ! By the eternal, but I wish I 
could find one honest man — I 'd salary him just to stand 
by and refresh me with the truth. Did you hear any 
thing of that pocketbook I lost last night? 

James. Can't hear any thing of it, sir — advertised far 
and near — offered twenty-five cents reward. 

Old B. Who authorized you to offer a reward? — 
twenty-five cents for three hundred and fifty dollars! 
Where 's my daughter ? 

Merelda. (From behind the sofa.) Here, pa. . 

Old B. What are you doing there ? 

Merelda. Well, pa, I was so shocked at your naughty 
conduct I hid myself. 

OldB. No you did n't, you hussy. There 's some other 
reason. There is something up here — you can deceive 
readily as any. Here, give me my stick. I '11 take you along 
for a walk, and disappoint you. And you, Susan, have my 
coffee ready by the time I return. (Exit with Merelda. 

Col. B. (Coming from closet.) I say, Jim, she 's here. 

James. Who, sir ? 
24 



282 Emotional Insanity. 

Col. B. The little blonde — Saratoga Common. 

James. You do n't say so ! 

Col. B. Yes, I do. I 've been writing her for weeks 
past offering all sorts of compromises, and the other day 
I had a hurried note saying that her husband had posses- 
sion of my letters. 

James. The devil ! 

Col. B. And she had fled from home to come to me. 

James. More devils — five thousand devils ! You cer- 
tainly did n't sign your name to the letters ? 

Col. B. No, only "Your devoted James;" "Your 
loving Jim; " " Your ever devoted James" — 

James. And she 's here ? 

Col. B. Saw her get out of the stage from the last 
train — no mistaking that wig. She 's searching this town 
over for me this minute— I must cut and run. Could n't 
face little Saratoga Common now — and if she were to run 
against old paternal B., he may as well make an early as- 
signment. 
Enter Susan with coffee, which she places on table, and exit. 

James. It 's rather ticklish staying about here, sir— 
the paternal B. may return any moment. 

Col. B. I won't go back to the hotel ; and curse me 
if I like a damp arbor in a dewy morning, but I suppose 
I must go into ambush again. 

James. Hurry up, sir — here he comes. This way — 



Emotional Insanity. 283 

get out here. {Jumps through the window, ba?iging it after 
him.) 

Enter Old Brown and Merelda. 

Old B. What's that? 

James. Dog Bowser, sir — took a mutton chop off 
your table, and just tumbled through the window, sir. 

Old B. Merelda. 

Merelda. Sir ? 

Old B. Did you ever hear a fellow that could fabricate 
the way this coachman of mine can ? 

Merelda. Really I can't say, sir. 

Old B. He says Bowser went out at that window with 
a mutton chop. ' Now I did n't order chops this morning, 
but muffins, and Bowser was with us in our walk. 

James. Well, sir, it was a large Newfoundland, un- 
commonly like Bowser, and come to look, it was a buttered 
muffin. 

Old B. James? 

James. Sir ? 

Old B. Get out ! Susan. 

Susan. Sir ? 

Old B. Get out ! Now, Merelda, sit down there 
while I take my coffee. I want to talk to you about that 
fellow. (She takes her work and sits.) That Colonel Bangs 
is an adventurer. He is after my money. He shan't 
have it. He wants you. He shan't have you. You ran 



284 Emotional Insanity. 

against him at Saratoga, where all the rogues, gamblers, 
sharpers, thieves, and liars congregate — bah ! He is one 
— I do n't know but what he is all of them — bah ! Because 
he waltzed well, talked well, and dressed well — the puppy 
— you accepted him. Bah ! this coffee is all grounds. 

Merelda. Dear pa, you are so unreasonable and so 
violent. 

Old B. What, about the coffee ? 

Merelda. No, about my Colonel. 

Old B. No, I 'm not. Do you know what I discov- 
ered ? 

Merelda. I 'm sure I do n't know — something very 
absurd, I expect. 

Old B. No; it was criminal. While he was courting 
you he was intriguing with a married woman, a vile blonde ; 
and he called her — the jackanapes — Saratoga Common, 
and you Saratoga Preferred. 

Merelda. Oh! pa, how could you listen to such an 
absurd scandal ? I 'm ashamed of you. 

Old B. See here, Merelda, I 'm a plain man. I am 
the son of Johnson, Brown & Co., pork. What I have 
I 've made by honest toil. I 'm not going to throw it 
away on an idle, worthless vagabond who '11 spend my 
money and break your heart. You coaxed me this last 
summer to Saratoga. I got laughed at and you fooled. 
It is the resort of shams — bah ! women without bodies and 



Emotional Insanity. 285 

men -without shame. I won't look there for a son — no, 
not I. Bah! I never met with a man yet who was brave 
enough and honest enough to tell the truth. When I do 
I '11 recommend him to you as a husband. If you take 
him, good. If you do n't take him go farther and fare 
worse. 

Enter Old Ragenbag. 
And who are you ? 

Rag. It do n't make any manner of odds who I am. 
What is wanted to be known is, who lost a pocketbook ? 

Old B. To be sure ! Why, I did. 

Rag. What sort, boss? 

Old B. Russia leather, a good deal worn. 

Rag. And the pile — 

Old B. Three hundred and fifty-one — in fifties, 
twenties, and fives, with some change. 

Rag. Korrect, boss. 

Old B. And did you find it ? . 

Rag. It don't make any odds concerning that. 
There's the pocketbook — count the money. 

Old B. {Counting.') Three fifty-one and eighty-two 
cents. 

Rag. Korrect ? 

Old B. Perfectly correct, and there 's twenty dollars 
for your trouble. 

Rag. Keep your greenbacks, gov'n'r. I did n't find 



286 Emotional Insanity. 

it no manner of trouble to pick up that pocket-book, and I 
do n't want any of your money ; but if you 'd just let me 
bring my firearm to bear on that dog on your'n, that went 
for the seat of my trowsers, I'd be obleeged to you. 
{Fetches old horse-pistol out of his dag.) Dogs are dirty 
arastocruts and hate rag men. 

Old B. Why, who are you ? 

Rag. I 'm Old Ragenbag, the ragman. I was brought 
up on tombstones till eight years of age, when my father, 
the sexton, died, and then I got to be chief engineer to a 
blind hand-organ, when I carried the charitable cup in a 
solemn manner through the crowds. The blind hand- 
organ was a vicious old cuss, and I was kicked and cuffed 
through creation many years, till I up and run'd away. 
Then I j'ined the church ag'in and became deputy grave- 
digger ; then I was promoted to sexton, and lost my place 
through a bad habit I had uv tellin' uv the truth. 

Old B. Why, how was that ? 

Rag. Well, you see we had a revival, and it was my 
duty to keep an eye on the wicked young men and boys 
who 'd put brimstone in the stove, and make us smell hell 
when we was a sarchin' for heaven; an' I was watchin' 
round a dark corner for them wicked young men when I 
come on Deacon Snailor and Sister Maria Potts, and the 
Deacon began to holler he see 'd the Prophet a goin' up — 
and then he called on me in meetin' to say ef I had n't 



Emotional Insanity. 287 

seen that miracle, and I said no, but I'd seen Deacon 
Snailor a kissin' Sister Maria Potts in a promiscuous man- 
ner, an' they asked ef I 'd swear to that, and I said yes, 
I 'd be damned ef I would 'nt. I was charged with lyin', 
but was excommunicated for profane language. Then I 
went into the antique wearin' apparel business, an' the 
country all around knows me as "Truthful Rag," "Little 
Hatchet," and " Old George," because I never was known 
to prevaricate. Rags! Rags! 

Old B. You 're the man I 've been looking for. Give 
me your honest hand ; I engage you from this minute. 

Rag. What for? 

Old B. To stand by me and tell the truth. 

Rag. Look at here — don't you poke fun at me. I 
do n't allow no man that privilege. 

Old B. I am in earnest ; I engage you this minute ; 
I '11 give you liberal wages. 

Rag. To tell the truth at your elbow ? 

Old B. Exactly. 

Rag. Well, boss, while I 'm engaged in that pursuit 
what '11 you do ? 

Old B. I '11 enter into bonds to stand by you and forfeit 
fifty dollars for every lie I tell. 

Rag. Just put that in writing, boss. 

Old B. ( Writes). There we are. 

Rag. Korrect. 



288 Emotional Insanity. 

Old B. My daughter, you see before you one of 
nature's noblemen — your true aristocrat. 

Merelda. Glad to make your acquaintance, Hon. Mr. 
Ragman. 

Rag. Same to you, Miss. Hope you '11 have an hon- 
est husband, and children as will be — 

Enter se?vant with Mrs. Willows. 

Ser. Mrs. Widow Willows, sir. 

Widow. I am sorry to intrude upon you, Mr. Brown, 
but I 'm forced to make an appeal in behalf of fourteen 
fatherless children. 

Old B. Really, my good woman, I pay so much for 
the poor that I hav n't a cent. 

Rag. Hello! hello! Boss, that won't do. Here's 
your pocket-book, fat as a seal. Now, if you do n't want 
to give, say so. 

Old B. Tut, tut, man, I can't spare the money. 

Rag. Then out with it— don't lie about it. 

Old B. Bless my soul! Well, here, take it. Now, 
go, good woman. 

Widow. May the blessings of the fatherless fall on your 
aged head. 

Rag. {Taking off his hat.) Amen. Now go, widder. 
(Exit Widow.) 

Merelda. {Laughing.) I fear pa, nature's aristocrat, 
like the other aristocrats, will be found rather extravagant. 



Emotional Insanity. 289 

Old B. Oh! bother — he don't understand, you see. 
Merelda. No, I fear not. 

Enter Servant. 

r 

Ser. Delegation of citizens making an appeal for the 
home for indignant females. 

Old B. Indigent females, you fool! Show 'em in — 
I 've been bored to death reading their appeals in behalf 
of that swindle — bah ! — and now they come in person. 
Enter Delegation. 

Chairman. Mr. Brown, we come to you as a wealthy 
and influential citizen, in behalf of a home for indigent 
females. 

Old B. Yes, gentlemen, but I really have not had 
time to read your memorial. 

Rag. There you go, boss — lie number two — 

Old B. But— 

Rag. Not a but. You said you've been bored with 
that swindle ; but will it be a little harder now to tell the 
truth, or forfeit ? 

Old B. You misunderstood me. 

Rag. Not a bit uv it. 

Merelda. No, pa — the Hon. Mr. Rag-bag is right. 

Old B. Here, give me your paper. I subscribe one 
share. 

Chairman. Thank you, sir; your influence is more to 
us than the money. Good morning, sir. (Exuent.) 
2 5 



290 Emotional Insanity. 

Merelda. This is delicious. 

Old B. Miss, you go to your room ! 

Merelda. Certainly. Good morning, Hon. Rag-bag. 

Rag. Mornin', Miss. {Exit Merelda.) 

Old B. Now look here, old man. 

Rag. I 'm looking. 

Old B. There are certain reasons — 

Rag. For lyin' ? 

Old B. Why no, not exactly lying ; but I '11 explain 
after while. That will do for the present. Here, James ! 
{Rings. Enter James.) Here, you; this is my friend 
Ragenbag. I have employed him as an antidote to your 
rascality. He is an honest man and tells the truth. See 
that he is well cared for. {Exit.) 

James. Truthful man, permit me to vibrate ! 

Rag. What's that? 

James. Old Probity, that is a proposition to shake 
your honest hand. 

Rag. Oh! certainly. {Gives him awring.) 

James. Gewhilicans ! Did you labor under the delu- 
sion that you was a patent double-cog clothes-wringer ? 

Rag. That's what I call a shake of an honest hand, 

James. Well, I don't care to belong to that lodge — 
the grip is too much for me. What did the old bumble B. 
say you were engaged to do ? 

Rag. Tell the truth. 



Emotional Insanity. 291 

James. No, now — honest Injun? 

Rag. Young feller, when I say a thing I mean it. 

James. He is to go around and tell the truth. I say, 
you ought to have good wages, old man. 

Rag. Why so ? 

James. When a man goes into the business of butting 
stone walls he ought to have plenty of shinplasters to cover 
his bruises. Have you got a padded cap for a helmet and 
a stuffed shield for down, then? 

Rag. What do I want with them things ? 

James. For protection. If you do n't get more kicks 
and cuffs than coppers I'm a heathen. 

Rag. What 's your occupation ? 

James. Mine? Why, lying, principally. 

Rag. Young feller, ain't you ashamed? 

James. Ashamed ! old Honesty ! I am covered with 
blushes. But it 's the way of this wicked world. Truth 
Is a luxury — can I have luxuries? Look at my dependent 
family of fourteen children and ah aged father crying like 
little ravens for food ! 

Rag. Poor young man ! 

James. Now this venerable mother — 

Rag. You said father just now. 

James. Suppose I did; would you deprive me of a 
mother ? 

Rag. Oh ! no. 



292 Emotional Insanity. 

James. Well, then, don't cut 'em off. 

Rag. And can't you take care of 'em in honesty and 
truth ? 

James. Certainly not. There is no demand for them 
articles. Nobody tries it on. Look at the merchant — 
is n't his profits lies ? Look at the doctor — ar n't his 
doses falsehoods ? What 's a lawyer but a lie — 

Rag. Young man, would you mind giving me a little 
bread and cheese ? 

James. Do I look like a man who would refuse you 
bread and cheese ? 

Rag. Would you mind adding a drop of ale ? 

James. Do I look like a man who 'd deny you ale ? 
{Rings. Enter servant.) Here, Thomas, give this aged 
citizen large quantities of bread and cheese and the small- 
est quantity of ale. (To Ragenbag.) Follow him, Old 
Honesty. (Exeunt Ragenbag and Thomas.) My Col- 
onel pitched this in at my window, tied to a stone. Let 
me see what it is. (Reads.) "Jim, look out. I heard 
two detectives near my ambush talking to each other. 
They are watching the house — look sharp. J. B." A 
detective! That's a fellow, too stupid for a thief, who 
turns thief-catcher so as to divide all around. I have it, 
by Jove ! Old Honesty is one of them. Ah-ha ! Caught 
you there! Let me see — I'll smoke him. Here's his 
bag. Now if this bag is filled with shavings — and I '11 bet 



Emotional Insanity. 293 

it is — I 've got him sure; and I '11 have him kicked out for 
a burglar. {Is about to open bag when Susan enters. James 
hearing her, whistles in an unconcerned manner, dropping the 
bag.) Oh! is that you, Susan? 

Susan. Certainly, Mr. James — came for the cups. 
But what are you doing with that nasty bag ? 

James. I 'm a committee of seventy selected to smell 
out fraud, and show the difference between Tweedle-do 
and Tweedle-done. 

Susan. I do n't understand. 

James. Few do. Now I have wagered an immense 
sum with myself that this bag is stuffed with shavings. 
Now hold it. 

Susan. Ah, the dirty thing ! 

James. {Pulling out a pair of ragged pants.) Lost, by 
Jove ! See, Susan, these are what the females are fighting 
for. We '11 send them with our compliments to Miss Susan 
Anthony and Cady Stanton. {Pulls out pannier. ) And, 
here, Susan, the vanities. And now, me love, tell me 
why this is like a tale in the ledger. Give it up? 

Susan. Of course. 

James. It is a tail of pleasing fiction based on a stern 
reality. 

Susan. Ain't you ashamed ! 

James. So ashamed I blush. {Pulls out petticoat.) 
And this, Susan is what moves the world — a petticoat. 



294 Emotional Insanity. 

"Flag of the free heart's hope and home, by angel's hands 
to valor given." 

Susan. I won't stay and hear such stuff. 

James. Hold, me tuberose — here's papers. Let me 
see : delicate sheets — fine, scratchy female writing. (Reads.) 
" Dearest Harry — You swear never to desert your loving 
Maria." See, Susan, love and letter thrown away — tram- 
pled under foot, and then to the rag-bag. ' ' To what base 
uses do we come at last!" Oh! bother — this old fellow 
is no detective. If he was smart enough to get up this 
thing to deceive, he 'd be an alderman ; we 'd find him in 
the Credit Lobelia. Hello! there comes the old Bumble 
B. Hurry, Susan. {Tumbles articles into the bag, throws it 
behind sofa, and exit. Susan takes tray and goes out as Old 
Brown and Ragenbag enter.) 

Old B. I hope you find yourself comfortable here, 
my truthful friend. 

Rag. Well, can't complain. Grub's good, I must 
say. But there 's a feller here in brass buttons an' a good 
deal of brass in his face, that for cool, downright lyin' 
beats bobtail. 

Old B. James — oh, I know him; he's the poison — 
you're the antidote. (Seats himself at table.) Now I 
want you — 

Enter Servant. 
Servant. There's a lady here, sir, says she must see you. 



Emotional Insanity. 295 

Old B. Well, let her see me. Another beggar, I 
suppose. 

Enter Mrs. Raven Wild. 

Mrs. W. I wish to see you a few moments, Mr. 
Brown, in private. 

Old B. This is a confidential friend of mine, Madam ; 
you can speak freely before him. Take a seat. 

Mrs. W. I am in deep trouble. I come to you — I 
need advice. I want your sympathy. 

Rag. He '11 give lots of that, Madam — so will I. 

Old B. Mr. Ragenbag, do n't interrupt the lady. 

Mrs. W. You see before you, sir, an oppressed wife 
— a miserable woman. Married at an age when I could not 
use maturer wisdom, I united myself to a man who could 
not appreciate the refined delicacy of my sentiments, the 
tender organization of my feelings. I longed for sym- 
pathy, love and companionship ; he wanted a slave — he 
called it wife. A poet by nature I soared from earth 
into the heaven of imagination. I sought for the inspira- 
tion of the poets; he, of the earth, earthy, would bind 
me to a wash-tub. 

Old B. Ragenbag ! 

Rag. Sir? 

Old B. This female is crazy. 

Rag. Korrect. 

Mrs. W. Do you heed me, sir ? Life became unen^ 



296 Emotional Insanity. 

durable. At last, at a fashionable summer resort, I met 
my affinity — a sympathetic soul. Ah! the long summer 
rides and walks — the heaven on earth ! We separated — 
we corresponded. As I saw one I could love, and one 
who could appreciate, I seemed to draw near and nearer 
my misery. I looked my horrible fate in the face — I 
could not bear it. ( Weeps.') 

Rag. ( Weeping.) Boss, she could not bear it. 

Old B. It is very touching. Ragenbag. {Aside.) 
And she 's very good-looking, especially in tears. Go on, 
Madam. 

Mrs. W. Oh ! sir, imagine if you can the desolate 
soul doomed to everlasting servitude — no hope, no heaven, 
no relief ! 

Rag. (Sadly.) No relief, boss. 

Old B. None whatever, Ragenbag, save in a Chicago 
divorce. 

Mrs. W. A divorce ! And were I to seek justice in 
a court, what would be the response from heartless men, 
our masters ? 

Old B. Blessed if I know — do you, Ragenbag ? 

Rag. None whatsomever. 

Mrs. W. I took my fate in my own hand — I fled. 
My affinity wrote me from this place. I came, but oh 
heavens ! not to find him. Thinking you might know 
some way out of this fearful labyrinth of lost hope, I 



Emotional Insanity. 297 

throw myself upon your mercy. I ask, I beg, I plead your 
gentle protection. (To Ragenbag.) Are you a father? 

Rag. Not much. 

Mrs. W. (To Old Brown.) Are you a father? 

Old B. I am. 

Mrs. W. Then as a father I appeal to you. You will 
shield and protect me. 

Old B. I will. Ragenbag, we will shield and pro- 
tect — 

Rag. We will, gov' nor — 

Old B. Die defending injured innocence. 

Rag. Die in our tracks. 

Servant. (Outside.) You can't come in, sir. 

Mr. W. I will go in. Get out of my way, you 
fellow. 

Mrs. W. Oh, heavens ! My husband ! Where 
shall I fly ? Hide me — protect me— he is mad with 
jealousy ! (Rushes into room.') 

Enter Wild pushing servant.) 

Mr. W. Can't come in ? I 'li see if I can't. 

Old B. And who are you, sir ? 

Mr. W. Me, sir — me, sir ? I 'm an injured hus- 
band, sir. I am threatened with emotional insanity. 
Beware ! 

Old B. And do you know who I am, sir ? 

Mr. W. No, I do n't. 



298 Emotional Insanity. 

Old B. I am James Brown, Esq., proprietor of these 
premises, and I 'd like to know — 

Mr. W. Ah, ha! You're J. B., are you? You're 
" my sweet James," " adoring James " — you hoary-headed 
villain ! 

Old B. Sir ! 

Mr. W. Do n't interrupt me — I feel the fit coming on. 
I '11 murder you in a minute. 

Old B. This is an infernal outrage ! Will you please 
tell me — 

Mr. W. Of course I will. Reason, hold your own 
while I tell this aged seducer of wives his villainy. My 
wife is a fool, sir, a sentimental fool — a poetic fool. We 
didn't agree. What of that? What married pair does 
agree ? She suddenly left my bed and board. I found a 
note from her — I found several notes to her — letters, sir, 
love-letters dated at this town and signed J. B. — your lov- 
ing James. I came here, sir — I came with two detectives. 
Two detectives examined directory and found the J. B. — 
James Brown — you, sir — you ! Reason, hold your own. 
More, sir. Detectives tracked her to this house. I saw 
her myself — lace shawl, yellow hat and feather. Think I 
don't know them? Cost me twenty dollars. Now, be- 
fore I go mad, you aged seducer, where 's my wife ? 
( While he is talking, Old B. is erecting a barricade of tables 
and chairs before him. ) 



Emotional Insanity. 299 

Old B. How do I know ? 

Mr. W. She's here — she's on these premises — the 
premises of James Brown, Esq. 

Old B. No, she is n't. 

Rag. Hold hard, boss, do n't lie. 

Old B. (Aside to Rag.) Would you have me mur- 
dered ! 

Rag. Never mind that. What's death to veracity? 

Mr. W. Where is she, you whited sepulchers — 
you aged villains ? 

Rag. Do n't be abusive, young man. Your wife is in 
this room. 

Old B. Oh Lord ! 

Mr. W. Let me at her ! 

Rag. No, you do n't. We do n't allow no obstreperous 
conduct in this house, an' we 've had about enough uv 
your noise. 

Mr. W. Do you dare stand in my way ? 

Rag. Uv course. 

Mr. W. Do you see that, wretched man. {Present- 
ing revolver.) That is a Colt, and carries four chambers 
of death. 

Rag. I see that an' go one better. (Presenting 
pistol.) That is a hoss. Now ef you do n't drop that in- 
strument there '11 be a sudden death in yer family. 

Mr. W. Am I to be baffled thus of my revenge? 



300 Emotional Insanity. 

No ! I '11 kill the hoary-headed seducer. ( Turning, sees 
Old B., stealing out.) Flies from me ! Whoop! Now, 
I'm mad! {Rushes after. Rag. follows. Four shots heard, 
and then a heavy explosion from horse pistol.) 
Enter, screaming Merelda, Mrs. Raven Wild, Susan 
and James. 

Merelda. What is the meaning of this ? James, where 
is my father ? 

James. {Getting on a chair.) Miss, he 's making about 
the best time, for an old gentleman, down the main walk 
that I ever saw. Emotional Insanity is gaining on him, 
and old Rags fetches up the rear. Two to one on Emo- 
tional Insanity ! Now its neck and neck — old Rags spurts 
and closes on them ! They have tumbled into the bower 
and unearthed the Colonel ! He jockeys on Emotional 
Insanity ! Now they come at a tremendous pace ! A 
blanket would cover the entire party. Your father spurts 
— he takes the lead ! Ten to one on paternal ! Here he is 
on the home stretch. Whoop, hurrah ! 
Enter Old B., who throws himself breathless upon the sofa, fol- 
lowed by Colonel Bangs, holding on to Wild. After, 
enter Old Ragenbag. 

Col. B. {Throwing off Wild.) There, you hound! 
What does all this mean ? 

Mrs. W. (Throwing herself on Colonel B.) Take 
me, protect me ! 



Emotional Insanity. 301 

Col. B. (Seating her abruptly in a chair.) Certainly, 
I '11 protect you ! I '11 protect any body — I '11 protect every 
body ! But I would like to know what all this is about. 

Mr. W. She calls on you for protection. Perhaps 
you are my man. Did you write these letters ? (Sho7uing 
letters. ) 

James. Hello ! Let me see them. Why, what are 
you doing with my love-letters ? 

Mr. W. Yours? 

Ja?nes. Yes, mine, Emotional Insanity — and not ad- 
dressed to you, either. 

Susan. What, Mr. Jim ! 

James (Aside to Susan.) Hush! I'm executing a 
flank movement to extricate my Colonel. 

Mr. W. Now, Mrs. Wild, if you have any sense left 
in your idiotic head, will you tell me which of these gen- 
tlemen you eloped with ? 

Mrs. W. Why, none of them. I fled alone from 
your brutality, as I wrote you. I came here in search of 
one who once said he loved; but, alas ! he disowns me. 

Mr. W. And who wrote these letters ? 

Mrs. W. I'm sure I don't know. This gentleman 
says he did. 

James. Yes, and I 'd like to know how you, or your 
wife either, got hold of them. 



302 - Emotional Insanity. 

Mr. W. Well, are you going back with me after this 
wild-goose chase ? 

Mrs. W. Well, I suppose so, you brute. And if you 
do n't treat me better I '11 turn woman's rights, and lec- 
ture. There now ! 

Old B. Colonel, you have saved my life threatened 
by these lunatics. I forgive you, nay, I do more, I give 
you my daughter. Bless you, my children ! 

Rag. Amen ! Now, boss, shall we go on in the cause 
of truth ? 

Old B. No, my Christian friend, I have had truth 
enough to do me the rest of my natural life. I find by 
experience that a little lying is necessary to oil the wheels 
of civilized society. It is only among wild Indians and 
Friend Quakers that the truth is common, and it is dan- 
gerous with one and very disagreeable with the other. 



BLENNERHASSETT'S ISLAND. 



CHARACTERS. 

Aaron Burr. 

Harman Blennerhassett, English gentleman, wealthy 
and scholarly, living a secluded but luxurious life on an island of 
the Ohio river. 

Mrs. Blennerhassett, beautiful and cultured. 

Wolf, a renegade. Victor Brady, an old lover of Mrs. 
Blennerhassett's. 

Barbara Dair, discarded love of Burr's. Enoch Brand, 
a government messenger. 

Captain Wilkinson, commanding United States troops. 

Mike Fink, 



burg,") 



, boatmen. 
' Old Gettysbu 

Mahala, Indian girl. 

Scipio, Blennerhassett's colored servant. 

Soldiers, hunters, boatmen, regulators and messengers. 



ACT I. 

Scene: portion of Blennerhassett's Island, giving the lawn 
in front of house and view of the river. The house is large but 
rustic, built of logs with porch having trunks of trees for columns 
to support roof made of clap-boards held down by poles. 

As the curtain rises a chorus of men is heard approaching as 
if rowing. 

(303) 



304 BlennerhasseW s Island. 

" Oh, ho! boatmen, row, 
We're floating on the waters of the O-hi-o." 

Enter Old Get, Mike Fink, and others carrying deer. 

Old Get. There boys, take the carcass to the Colonel's 
kitchen and tell that son of Satan, the . cook, to throw us 
enough for supper. 

Hwiters. All right, Get. {They carry off deer and re- 
turn}) 

Old Get. We '11 get more sass than venison I guess. 
I 'd like to take that nigger by the scruff of his neck and 
the seat of his breeches and just pitch him into hell fire, 
I would ! 

Mike. Seem' he aint your nigger, old man, the owner 
might think you was takin' liberties and that would hurt 
his feelin's. 

Old Get. Col. Blennerhassett is a mighty good man, 
but he keeps the meanest niggers — the most ornery critters 
ever sot on end. For my part I 'm glad we 're goin' to 
haul off to-morrow. I can't stand sass generally, but sass 
from a nigger riles my bile till I am ready to bite. 

First Hunter. Do you know, old man, whar we 're 
goin' to? 

Old Get. Sonny, I haint the remotest idea. They 
tells us we' uns air emigrants goin' to settle Col. Burr's land. 

Mike. Well that's good to tell the women, children, 
and weak-minded critters, but I know a thing or two. 



BlcnnerhassetV s Island. 305 

First Hunter. Tell us all you know. 

Old Get. Now boys ef you set that young man to 
tellin' all he knows we won t get off this island for a year, 
and not then ef he aint exhausted. 

First Hunter. Oh, you make too much noise with 
your mouth. Go on, Mike. 

Mike. Well, then, it aint common to drill men in 
platoons to settle new land nor to fight Injuns. Now, is it ? 

Hunters. No it aint. 

Mike. Well, aint we bein' drilled by Colonel Burr, 
night and day — now, aint that so ? 

Hunters. It air, it air. 

Mike. Well, then, enny damned fool would know — 
why Old Get here would know — that something 's up be- 
sides settlin' land and settlin' Injuns. 

Old Get. Oh, you 're too damned smart you air, aint 
it necessary to have soldiers to fight Injuns ? 

Mike. No, it just aint — soldier fightin' is by platoon, 
and Injun fightin' is for every feller to keep his eye skinned 
and hug the trees. Now, aint that so ? 

Hunters. It air, it air. 

Old Get. Oh, much you know ! My father fit in the 
revolution and I fit — 

Mike. Oh, thunder ! What 's that got to do with it ? 
But I know something else. You know them big boxes 
in the bottom of our broad horn ? 
26 



306 BlennerhassetV s Island. 

Hunters. We does— we does. 

Mike. Well, the head of one marked ''bacon "got 
knocked off, and I saw the muzzle of the biggest gun ever 
made. Why, a feller could put his head in it. Least- 
wise, Old Get could put his in easy. Is them guns for 
Injuns, boys ? I reckon not. 

Old Get. What do you know about big guns ? Let 
me tell you about a gun— 

Mike. There, boys — come here ; Old Get is preparin' 
— Old Get 's goin' to bust a big gun on us. 

Old Get. What I 'm goin' to tell you is God's truth, 
jist to show ye what ye do n't know about guns. 

Mike. Pole her off, pole her off, old warrior. 

Old Get. Whin I was in Gettisburg I was ridin' home 
on my mare, Sunflower, when the awfullest storm come 
up ever known in thim parts. I jist happened to know of 
an old cannon on the side of the road that was left by the 
British in the Revolution, and I jist rode my mare into the 
mouth of it. 

{The hunters hold up their hands and whistled) 

Mike. Hold on, hold on ; take a turn around a root, 
the old man aint under way yet. 

Old Get. Well, it got as dark as midnight, and the 
flashes of lightnin' clean blinded a feller. While I was 
waitin' the stage coach came tearin' along, and I be 
damned if the driver didn't drive helter-split right into 



Blennerhassett 's Island. 307 

the mouth of the cannon and killed his two leaders agin 
the lower eend. 

Mike. And how did you escape? 

Old Get. Escape ? Whin I heard the thing thunderin' 
in, I jist realized the danger quick as wink, and I put 
spurs to Sunflower and leaped her out at the touch hole. 

Mike. Give him the honors, boys; give him the 
honors. That's the biggest lie yet. 
Enter Scip. 

Scip. De grub foh de common white trash is now pre- 
p ah e d . {Exeunt all. ) , 

Mike. {Following.') If that aged African do n't strike 
a snag before long, I do n't know the nature of the river 
hereabouts. 

Enter Mr. and Mrs. Blennerhassett. 

Mrs. Blen. These hunting expeditions are so perilous, 
my love, that I count the hours in dread till your return. 
But I can not bid you stay, for hunting is your only occu- 
pation and amusement. 

Blen. Shooting game and being shot at by Indians 
make rather an exciting life. It is selfish of me, for it 
leaves you all alone at home. 

Mrs. Blen. Not all alone ; I have my love of you 
ever with me — truest, bravest, and most generous of men. 
But for your danger I would be well content. 

Blen. I fear you deceive me, dearest, or deceive 



308 Blennerhassetf s Island. 

yourself. I see you changing day by day. The smile 
you greet me with is one of patience, resignation, not 
of joy. Small wonder, though; these wilds and wilder 
settlers are not the scenes and people my peerless love 
was born to grace. 

Mrs. Blen. Not that, my own, not that. I have no 
thought of or care for the vain life I put behind me. 

Blen. What ! my love ? 

Mrs. Blen. We have escaped detraction — escaped the 
mocking eye of men and the stinging tongue of women — 
but Oh ! my heart, our sin we carry to the wilderness and 
is ever with us. Waking or dreaming, I see the home I 
made desolate, the husband I betrayed. 

Blen. These thoughts are morbid, love. The home 
you left was never home to you. The husband you 
fled from was but a brute. I see this solitary life, this 
brooding wilderness, makes you ill. And that reminds 
me, pet, this Colonel Burr offers to us a change. He begs 
us to accompany him in his expedition. 

Mrs. Blen. Something within bids me fear this man. 
He is so subtle, polished, calm. There is no impulse in 
him, and his honeyed words seem prompted by design his 
words conceal. 

Blen. We have lived so long among rough men a 
gentleman appears unnatural and therefore suspicious. 
Hush, he approaches. 



Blennerhas sett's Island. 309 

Enter Aaron Burr. 

Burr. {After a patise — looking off.) I do not wonder, 
that you, my friend, are fascinated with this lovely home. 
See where rosy evening nestles in the arms of night, while 
the flowing river turns to waves of gold and the rich 
autumnal tints of wooded banks make earth a part of 
heaven. The world seems fresh from God's own hand 
unmarred by man's abusive waste. 

Blen. One wearies of the sameness after a time. 

Burr. That is true. The great Johnson tells us how 
Rassalas tired of the happy valley, and I believe had 
Adam and Eve been Yankees they would not have waited 
for the Lord to turn them from the garden of Eden ; they 
would have emigrated long before and gone to speculating 
in wild lands. After all, human life and human effort are 
necessities to us. 

Mrs. Blen. We have our human life, Colonel, never 
fear. This paradise is a refuge for criminals escaping con- 
viction and convicts escaping punishment. Why, even 
red-handed murder with the mark of Cain comes to us. 

Blen. My wife has a sharp tongue for our lower set- 
tlement. You must pardon her. 

Burr. God never placed an angel to guard a sacred 
place without arming her with a flaming sword. 
Enter Barbara Dair disguised as a government messenger. 

Blen. Whom have we here ? 



310 Blennerhassett 's Island. 

Barb. Mr. Blennerhassett? 

Blen. At your service. 

Barb. I am a government messenger in search of 
Colonel Burr. 

Burr. You find him here, my boy. What have you 
for me ? 

Barb. This package of papers sent you through the 
care of the War Department. 

Burr. Thanks, my lad. Will madam pardon me ? 
( Takes papers and retires up the stage. ) 

Barb. And these for Mr. and Mistress Blennerhassett. 

Blen. You are welcome, Mr. Messenger, to our is- 
land. (Taking letters .) Go in, and Scip will see that you 
are cared for. (Blennerhasset and wife open letters.') 

Barb. {Aside as she enters house.) The devil did not 
know me in this disguise. I '11 have my vengeance yet ! 

Blen. What brings the mail to you, my love ? 

Mrs. Blen. A gossip's letter from the world we left 
behind. The one friend who knows of our retreat writes 
that Victor fell in a tavern brawl so badly wounded that 
he is not expected to survive. He may be dead and I can 
be your wife indeed. 

Blen. I hope so, what is the date of your letter ? 

Mrs. Blen. I had not looked at that. Why, it has 
been some eight months reaching here. I may be free. 

Blen. God send it may be so. Ill news flies swiftly, 



B tenner has sett 's Island. 311 

while good news lags like a lazy summer. I have a con- 
fidential letter here from our friend, Governor Morris, who 
introduced to us Colonel Burr, he writes (reads): " I feel 
it my duty, old friend, having introduced the devil to your 
paradise, to warn you of your peril. It is whispered here 
that he is in some conspiracy against the government. I 
do not believe this ; at the same time his operations in the 
wild West are mysterious, so suspicious, indeed, that the 
government has sent Captain Wilkinson with a force to in- 
quire into his movements, and, if necessary, arrest him. 
Do n't get yourself involved in any of his schemes, what- 
ever they may be. He is as insinuating, selfish, and un- 
scrupulous as Satan. Above all, keep guard when petti- 
coats are about — a word to the wise." 

Mrs. Blen. No need of such a warning to a woman. 
My better instincts read the man aright when first we met. 
I detest him. 

Blen. Hush — he is near. 

Burr. {Coming forward. Aside.) And so Tom Jef- 
ferson sends an officer and guard for my arrest. He will 
execute such order at his peril. Where could I have seen 
that face and heard that voice. They haunt me like a 
troubled dream. 

Blen. I gather, Colonel, from your troubled look that 
you have grave news. 

Burr. Not at all. Our good president is somewhat 



3 12 Blennerhassett 's Island. 

anxious over my expedition. The author of revolution 
himself, he is jealous of a like right in others. I have 
given you my confidence, noble friend, and here are the 
papers unfolding all our plans and hopes. I hope they 
will meet your approbation. {Gives papers as Barbara 
steals in unobserved. Enter Old Get.) 

Old Get. By the holy Moses, we've got him — we've 
got him ! 

Blen. Got who? 

Old Get. The head devil himself. 

Burr. My excited friend, such victory is worse than 
defeat. To get the devil is to gain a loss. 

Blen. Will you tell us what you mean? 

Old Get. I mean the boys have captured Wolf, the 
renegade — got him fast. 

Blen. Was there much loss of life? Did he resist 
desperately ? 

Old Get. Bless your soul, resist ! He first took the 
boys, and then the cuss surrendered. 

Blen. How so? Confound it, man; will you stop 
jumping, and tell us coherently what you mean ? 

Old Get. Sartin I will — sartin. The boys had settled 
for supper. They put their guns agin an oak, lit a fire, 
and went to cookin', when all of a suddint Wolf, the cuss, 
stepped in betwixt 'em and their guns with a thunderin' 
big pistol in each hand, and told 'em to surrender. Lord! 



BlennerhasseW s Island. 313 

but things looked ugly for us, 'cause the boys thought he 
had a hundred redskins at his back ready to jump an' yell, 
and so they sot still and looked like geese before thunder. 

Blen. And then ? 

Old Get. He told 'em jist as quiet and as cool as the 
devil that he 'd surrender if they 'd agree to fetch him 
here. They was only too willin', and they gave their 
honor, and they 's acrossin' the river with the skunk this 
minute. There they are. 

Enter Mike Fink and crowd with Wolf bound. 

Fink. Here he is — here 's the renegade and scalper ; 
got him sure. 

Crowd. Hang him ! hang him — 

Mrs. Blen. Oh! Harman, don't — don't let them harm 
him here before my very eyes ! 

Blen. The man's a murderer — a cruel butcher and 
deserves death. 

Mrs. Blen. Oh! no, not now — not now — Oh, please 
save him ! I can not bear it— it will kill me. 

Blen. Hold there. He must have a trial first. 

Fink. Damn a trial — he did not give the people he 
killed a trial. 

Crowd. Hang him ! Hang him ! 

Blen. Stand back I say ! 

Mrs. Blen. Oh, Colonel Burr, help us save him! 

Burr. {Seizing a pistol from regulator :') Here, you 
27 



314 Blennerhassett s s Island. 

men of my command, stand back {placing himself between 
Wolf and crowd). The man who stirs is dead. 
Curtain. 



ACT II. 

Scene: Same as in first act. Mike Fink, Old Get, and 
others discovered. 

Fink. I say, fellows, he 's got to hang ! 

Old Get. Them 's my sentiments. 

Fink. It 's bad enough for an Injun to slaughter and 
scalp, but when it comes to a white man he ought to be 
skinned alive and hung in a smoke house. 

Old Get. Them 's my sentiments. 

Fink. Why, boys, he 's taught the redskins how to 
fight; he's a gineral among the devils, and shows 'em how 
to spread in an ambush and swing in behind and attack 
and retreat as good as Old Wayne — damn him ! 

Crowd. Damn him ! 

Old Get. Have you heard the news, boys — ten thous- 
and United States troops landed at Marietta last night. 

Fink. Oh, get out ! 

Old Get. Fact, Fink. Saw 'em land; Gineral Wilkin- 
sin is in command ; he 's a seven-footer if an inch — carries 
a sword that takes ten men to buckle on. 

Fink. Get, you are the biggest liar unhanged. 



Blennerhassett *s Island. 315 

Old Get. Fact, Fink. Talk of officers ! When I lived 
in Gettisburg an officer come along recruitin'. I tell you 
what — he was a bully buster. Why, that man weighed — 

Fink. Now, Get, hold hard; take a turn on a saplin'. 
You 've got a little character left — do n t throw it away on 
a few tons. 

Old Get. Well, he weighed nigh onto a ton. Fact, 
Fink. 

Fink. Well, we '11 agree on that, but not a ton more. 

Crowd. No, not a pound ! 

Old Get. He was a mighty active man, though, for 
all he was so big. Why, one day the powder mill near 
Gettisburg took fire. The Gineral says, says he, " Old man 
it won't do to let the town be destroyed — come on." We 
was about a mile off, and we was neck and neck, the Gin- 
eral a little ahead. We got there in jist no time. All the 
men had run away, jist skeered to death, and the powder 
was explodin' like hot thunder. It was so deafenin' you 
could n't hear yourself think. But we went in, I tell you, 
and tromped out forty barrels apiece afore we got the thing 
under control and saved the town. 

Fink. Oh, Get ! forty barrels ? 

Old Get. Fact, Fink. 

Fink. Come, boys, let's rig a purchase to hang the 
renegrade . (As they go out Wilkinson and Barbara enter. ) 

Wil. This letter from the secretary of war tells me 



2,i 6 Blentierhassett' \s Island. 

not only to confide in but advise with you, boy. I must 
say the government has selected a very youthful adviser. 
Are you sure this credential does not belong to some older 
person ? You will pardon my doubts, but my mission is 
too delicate and important to be risked by a blunder. Are 
you Enoch Brand? 

Barb. No, Captain, that is not my name. 

Wil. I thought as much. Then, how came you by 
this confidential letter ? 

Barb. It was given me by the President. 

Wil. This is a strange riddle my boy, you will excuse 
a blunt soldier, but it is my belief that you are lying. You 
stole this paper. 

Barb. It is necessary, Captain, to accomplish the one 
task we both are commissioned to execute that we should 
have confidence in each other. 

Wil. You have certainly a manly way of talking, boy. 

Barb. Captain, I throw myself upon your better 
judgment. I am not Enoch Brand. I am not a boy. 
My name is Barbara Dair, and Aaron Burr, the man I 
seek to punish, is my destroyer. 

Wil. Why, this is amazing — and the government com- 
missions you to aid and advise me ? 

Barb. Even so. The President knows that my com- 
mission is from God. He but indorses that. I follow this 
man as retribution tracks the steps of crime. 



Bletinerhassett's Island. 317 

Wil. He, this Colonel Burr, has wronged you ? 

Barb. Most foully. I was innocent and happy when 
he crossed my path, and when he had won my heart he 
cast me aside as he would a blighted flower. The flower 
retains its thorn even in death. 

Wil. I feel sorry for you, girl; sorry for your loss, 
and yet more sorry for the task you have assumed. And 
how do you propose to aid me ? My instructions are to 
arrest Burr, but not without clear proof of his treason. 
This throws a heavy weight of responsibility upon me. 
The man is a devil, cautious and cunning as he is bold. 

Barb. I believe I see the way. Burr seeks to gain this 
Blennerhassett to his cause. He needs the money, for the 
owner of this home is rich, and he loves the pretty wife. 
He confides in Blennerhassett; has given him in writing all 
his plans — all, I believe, that implicate the men associated 
with him in his treason. Could we but get those papers — 

Wil. I see — I see. What sort of a man is Blenner- 
hassett? 

Barb. A gentleman. 

Wil. A gentleman ? That I believe makes the very 
worst material to work upon. He will hold that confi- 
dence as he holds his honor, and his honor above his life. 

Barb. His honor, Captain, is not altogether in his 
keeping. This wife he dotes upon has much the larger 
trust, and Burr will undermine all that. 



318 Blennerhassett'' s Island. 

Wil. What ! Risk his all — character, trust, life itself, 
for a pretty woman ? 

Barb. It is his one weak spot. Were the crown of 
England within his grasp he'd turn aside to dally with a 
love. Leave him to me until I hold the proofs. There 
come the puppets and the man himself. 

Enter Blennerhassett, Mrs. Blennerhassett, 
and Burr. 

Blen. You are most welcome to our island home, 
Captain! Permit me to present my wife; Colonel Burr, 
I believe, you have met before. 

Burr. And glad, sir, to take your hand again. Time, 
like a trusty friend, deals kindly by you, Captain. 

Wil. I thank you, Colonel. It does seem strange 
to meet so famed a soldier and renowned statesman in 
such a wilderness as this. 

Burr. You must not call a garden, guarded by such 
an angel, a wilderness, Captain. 

Wil. (Aside.) The oily-tongued devil! And I am 
expected to out-scheme and arrest him. (Aloud.) It 
seems attractive enough to make you linger here. I 
understood your immigration scheme is quite perfected. 

Burr. We need a few more frosts, my friend, to 
insure us health. 

Blen. Now, Captain, what can we do for you and 
your troops to make your brief stay pleasant ? 



Blenner/iassetl *s Island. 319 

Wil. I only ask a camping ground, if you will be kind 
enough to designate the spot that will least disturb your 
princely home. 

Blen. With pleasure. This way. 
Exeunt Captain Wilkinson, Blennerhassett, Burr, 
and Barbara. Enter guard. 

Guard. The renegade, Wolf, madam, wants to speak 
with you. 

Mrs. Blen. Wants to speak with me? Well, conduct 
him here. (Exit guard.) 

Mrs. Blen. Poor doomed man, doubtless he seeks 
further aid from me, and aid I can not give. I saved him 
from the cruel mob only to have him die by a drum-head 
court-martial. 

Enter Wolf, bound, between two guards. 

Mrs. Blen. You wish to speak to me ? 

Wolf. If you will trust me, fair lady, and bid these 
watch dogs step aside. Never fear, I pledge my word of 
honor as a gentleman to take no advantage of your 
kindness. 

Mrs. Blen. Leave us alone, good friends. Be at ease, 
I will answer for his security. You can rest the while, and 
Scipio will give you refreshments in the kitchen. {Exit 
guards.) 

Wolf. These soldiers obey you better than did the 
beastly mob of boatmen and regulators. (After a pause.) 



320 Blennerhasseit 's Island. 

You do not know me in this guise and place. Have these 

short years so changed my face that it has grown strange ? 

I thought when you were pleading for my worthless life 

you recognized the victim. 

Mrs. Blen. I ? No, I did not know you ; nor do I know 

you now. I plead for you in peril of your life as I would 

have plead for the meanest animal threatened with a cruel 

death. 

Barbara steals in listening. 

Wolf. Can it be, Clara, that my very voice is lost to 
you? 

Mrs. Blen. Great heavens, Victor Brady! — you alive 
and here ! {Staggers back. ) 

Wolf. Be firm. Be quiet. Time is brief with me. 
Lean against this oak. I am doomed to die at early dawn 
to-morrow, and I have something to communicate that it 
is well for you to hear. Will you hear ? 

Mrs. Blen. {Faintly.) Go on. 

Wolf. When I recovered from my wound, got in a 
drunken brawl, I followed you across the seas — tracked 
you to your hiding, with hell in my heart. I had no 
thought by day or dream at night but vengeance on my 
enemy who stole you from me. 

Mrs. Blenr. But Victor — 

Wolf. I know — I know — You would say I was a 
beast, and stole your child away. 



Blennerhassett 's Island. 321 

Mrs. Blen. My child, my poor Mary! 

Wolf. Hush, hear me, 'tis of that I'd speak. For 
months I have haunted this river, brooding upon my re- 
venge, hoping for the opportunity to kill you both, and I 
could have slain you both ere this ; I have had you pass 
me on your sfceed ; I have been hid in the wood when 
your lover hunting passed within range of my good rifle ; 
but I could not be satisfied unless you knew the hand 
that dealt the fatal blow. This stealthy watching gave me 
among my Indian friends the name of Wolf. 

Mrs. Blen. And you grew to be cruel as the savages ? 

Wolf. Speak them fair, my girl, speak them fair ! 
These simple children of the wood are gentlemen, loyal 
and true. They forget no favors and forgive no wrong. 
The little good I 've done in life was aiding them against 
these cut-throats and thieves called settlers. 

Mrs. Blen. But my child, my child, Victor! Tell me 
of my child. 

Wolf. Yes, 'tis she I would restore to you. Hear 
me ; living this life beneath the open sky, removed from 
all the evils of my early life, a change came over me and 
my sense of wrong died out. I surrendered that I might 
face you both and have an end of it. 

Mrs. Blen. But did you not know that such surrender 
would be death? 

Wolf. What matter — I was weary of life — 



322 BlennerhasseW s Island. 

Mrs. Blen. Our child, Victor — 

Wolf. Since you saved me for a little time I would 
prolong the respite that I might enable you to again 
possess — 

Mrs. Blen. Oh ! Victor tell me ! I will traverse the 
earth on foot to get my child again — 

Wolf. I left my papers in the keeping of my Indian 
friends. Without them your search would be useless. 
Could I escape — 

Mrs. Blen. {Unbinding Wolf ".) Yes — Yes, steal through 
the garden to the water edge. There you will find a boat 
built for me. Drop down the river under cover of the 
willows on this bank, then row across. 
Enter Barbara. 

Barb. Not so — not so. The soldiers going into camp 
are in your way. They can not fail to see you; pull 
boldly for the further shore, it is your only hope. 

Wolf. Thank you, my lad. {Exit.) 

Mrs. Blen. He must be seen — he can not escape ! 

Barb. Never fear; the idlers are gazing at the soldiers 
going into camp. All the boats are on the further end of 
the island — ah ! I see him. Brave man, he rows quietly 
along with no show of hurry in his efforts. 

Mrs. Blen. I can not look upon him. 

Barb. Every second sends the light craft further on 
its way. {A cry is heard.) Hark ! He is recognized. 



Blennerhassett 's Island. 



3 2 3 



(The cries increase.) Ah, now he pulls for life ! (Shouts 
heard.) They are firing on him from the camp. The 
shots strike the water all about him. (More shots.) Ah ! 
God, he 's down — No, he 's up again ! He pulls as if hurt — 
He 's beyond range ! He gains the shore." He staggers 
slowly up the bank. He is gone. 

Mrs. Blen. (Falling to her knees.) Thank God! 

(The long roll is heard as the curtain descends.) 



act in. 

Scene: Same as ist act. Blennerhassett and Burr. 

Blen. I have but glanced at the papers you gave me 
to read. I have learned enough, however, to realize the 
magnitude of what you propose — Mexico and Louisiana 
united in one kingdom. It seems to me the force you 
have is quite inadequate to compass so great a scheme. 

Burr. It is not the head but the heart that makes the 
effort potent. It is not the handful of common men upon 
a raft that troubles the Government at Washington and 
makes the country tremble. It is Aaron Burr. The name 
that fills the land I leave with vague anxiety fills the land 
I seek with hope. I am to this new land of ours what 
Napoleon is to Europe. 

Blen. Pardon me, Colonel, while I admit the force of 



324 Ble?inerhassett 's Island. 

what you say, yet will not this proposition of a kingdom 
in this day of republics be a grave obstacle to your 
success ? 

Burr. My friend, a republic which means the equal- 
ity of men made unequal by nature is a dream of lunatics. 
It is called self government, and at what period did a man 
govern himself? 

Blen. But the world progresses, Colonel. 

Burr. Not in that direction. In a barbarous age, 
when a man conquered his enemy he killed and ate him. 
After a time he progressed; he conquered and enslaved 
him. Then came what we are pleased to call civilization, 
and while one class became masters under the feudal sys- 
tem another sunk into slaves. The few fatten in idleness, 
while the many labor to live on a bare subsistence. Why, 
in this vaunted republic, my patriotic friend, the great 
leader — a very giant among pigmies, this French-Ameri- 
can, His Excellency — while preaching the equality of all 
men, lives on unrequited toil, has slaves to watch his face, 
to do untold his bidding as he wakes and fan his lordly 
brow when lost in sleep. 

Blen. But these are negroes. 

Burr. Yes, they are only negroes. In France they 
are only peasants, and in Prussia, serfs. Let us be consis- 
tent in this age of reason. If George Washington could 
be soothed to sleep by music made by whipping slaves, let 



Blennerhassetf s Island. 325 

us not blame the eastern monarch for his bath of human 
blood, or the dainty aristocrats of France, whose delicate 
gloves are tanned skins of men. 

Blen. You think these slaves should be made citizens? 

Burr. I think, to be consistent, we should make the 
masters citizens. We can not have all men born equal 
where one can be born to a thousand slaves. 

Blen. Or a thousand acres ? 

Burr. We make a distinction between property in 
dead matter and property in man. Our Virginia philoso- 
pher, who does not believe in God and does believe in 
Tom Jefferson, has caught from France the choice phrases 
that he tosses in our eyes as a showman does balls and 
knives to vulgar fooling. We have gone to sea in a bowl. 
We are bid to hope for a political impossibility. Look 
about you, man ! Where do we find in all creation this 
thing called self-government ? From the brutes up to the 
great Creator might is right. God allows of no republic. 
It is the law of our being that the fool may do for the wise 
man what the wise- man can not do for himself — govern 
him. 

Blen. These are heterodox opinions, Colonel. 

Burr. None the less true on that account. This 
scheme of self-government carries in itself its seeds of 
destruction. One corner is slavery ; the other the corpor- 
ation. We have dethroned the well-born to give place to 



326 BlennerhassetV s Island. 

vulgar wealth. All men are born equal, provided they 
are born white; and there shall be no inequality before 
the law, save that which is embodied in a corporation. 

Blen. I beg your pardon, Colonel ; I do not compre- 
hend this that you call a corporation. 

Burr. The soulless thing created by law that may 
amass wealth and live forever. It is a cloud no bigger 
than your hand. We shall not die before that cloud shall 
cover the heavens and spread desolation over the earth. 
Before it this thing of shreds and patches called a consti- 
tution, with its nicely adjusted checks and balances, will 
be wrecked like a boy's kite in a storm, and become a 
thing for men to laugh at. It is all in vain, my friend. 
What the people gain through violence they lose through 
fraud, and that with their own consent. The iron hand 
of greed has a velvet glove and fondles while it feels for 
power. 

Blen. Pardon me a seeming idle curiosity — it is not 
idle. I am tempted to take part in this daring scheme. 
Before I do, however, I seek to know all there is to know 
on what you found your hopes. 

Burr. I am glad to know this, my friend. A man of 
your ability and wealth should not be buried in this wilder- 
ness. A wide and noble career is offered you, and you 
will find on looking over the papers I entrusted to your 
honor that the journals of Europe, alarmed by the trouble 



Blcnnerhassetf s Island. 327 

in France that gets countenance from our Yankee republic, 
favor a dismemberment of the states and building at the 
South a monarchy to hold in check the wild insanity of 
these republicans. Now I must take my leave with a long 
ride to meet some friends at Marietta. Au revoir, my ex- 
cellent friend — when we again meet, may we meet as 
allies. (Exit.) 

Enter Mrs. Blennerhassett in riding dress, followed by 
Barbara. 

Blen. Ah! You 're for a ride I see. 

Mrs. Blen. Yes; Colonel Burr invites me to be his 
guide a short distance on his road to Marietta. 

Blen. Why, this is something novel — why, since when 
have you become so intimate ? 

Barb. (Aside.) Jealous is he? 

Mrs. Blen. My conduct has been rude and I repent 
me of it. This gentleman is our guest, and as such I 
strive to look upon and treat him. 

Blen. And I will see him mounted and the boat 
manned to row you over. (Exit.) 

Mrs. Blen. (To Barbara.) Well, well, what have you 
to report ? 

Barb. We found the boat adrift and stained with 
blood. Beneath the seat on which he sat and rowed for 
life there was quite a pool. I sent back the man, and in 
this light boat of yours I rowed to where the stream we 



328 BlennerhasseW s Island. 

told him of emptied in the river, and without much trouble 
found the sycamore, but no papers, and indeed no trace 
of any human being having been there. 

Mrs. Blen. He was wounded, and may be dead, and 
every trace of my poor child lost forever ! Will you try 
once more ? If alive he will keep his promise though he 
has to crawl. Stay — I will write a note that you may 
leave — will you? 

Barb. With pleasure, madam. (Mrs. BlennerhaSt 
sett enters house.) Poor woman, born weak and born to 
suffer. If I can only get possession of those papers held 
by her husband, one of earth's devils will come to punish- 
ment that is death and disgrace in one. But how — in 
what manner to go about it. Let me think. ( Walks up 
the stage.) 

Enter Mahala, Fink, and Old Get. 

Fink. Starboard your stern — starboard your stern; 
you 're comin bows on aboard me. 

Mahala. Well, get out then, I don't want to get 
aboard I can tell you. 

Old Get. Stand back — stand back, and give the old 
man a chance. 

Mahala. Go away both of you. I never see two such 
ridiculous men — never in all my life. 

Old Get. Oh, you dog-wood blossom, you wild plum, 
come to my arms. 



. 



B tenner hassett's Island. 329 

Fink. Do hear his old bones rattle ! I 'm your feller. 
Take a turn round my corpus and tie to me. 

Old Get. Oh ! Go 'way — wimmen is scarce in this 
neck of woods, and good men — real good old reliable men 
— aint plenty. I tell you, Mahaly, when I was in Gettis- 
burg, wimmen lit into me like butterflies on a sun- 
flower. 

Fink. Oh, get out! 

Old Get. Fact, Fink. 

Mahala. I wish you'd a' stayed there. 

Fink. Hear that, you old chestnut. I'm the winnin 
man on this occasion. 

Mahala. Oh ! Get out — I would n't touch you with 
a ten-foot pole. 

Fink. Young female, you're a takin' on furrin airs 
and graces, you air. The next trip I make down in the 
Sally-Ann I'll fetch a load of lovely females from Pitts- 
burgh, and then you '11 sing small, you will! 

Mahala. {Snapping her fingers .) That for your lovely 
females. I 'd like to see the girl 'd take you for company, 
nor you, you old bald-headed, snaggle-toothed scolly 
jumper ! (Fxit.) 

Old Get. Whew! What a scratch cat. I tell you, 
Fink, this scarcity of wimmin is a spoilen of 'em. The 
feller's aint right in their minds. Why a gang of us came 
across an old sun bonnet in the woods, and we gave three 



33° Blennerhassetf s Island. 

cheers and formed a ring and danced and squealed 'round 
like mad. 

Fink. I feel that way myself. I never knowed afore 
the power of petticoats. We've got to look after that 
trade; as Rout Out & Co. says at Pittsburgh, fetch the 
supply up to the demand. Ef I do n't fetch down a load 
of gals I'm a mink. 

Old Get. And throw in a few likely widders, Fink, — 
widders is mighty takin'; would n't mind a gross of 'em 
myself. Do n't forget the widders, Fink. 

Fink. I '11 bear in mind, old snowflake. But what 's 
this talk about the regulators going for us here because of 
the escape of Wolf? 

Old Get. There is such talk, Fink, and the settlers 
are mighty stirred up about it. You see that massacre at 
Big Sandy aint forgot in a hurry, and they do say that the 
regulators are gettin' a force ready to come down and clear 
out this island. 

Fink. Well, I can't say that I anger up at their bein' 
mad. It was enough to make a man snortin' mad to see 
his friends and neighbors ambushed, killed and scalped, 
but what the devil has folks here got to do with it ? 

Old Get. There's some curious stories goin' about. 
It is said that the Colonel's woman sent the guards off 
to drink, and Abe Anker is ready to swear he saw her 
going on over the renegade and untie him. 



Blennerhassetf s Island. 331 

Fink. Abe Anker aint as big a liar as you, Get, but 
he's close where you're steerin' in that line. I wouldn't 
believe it on his affidavy 'specially ef you swore to it, too. 

Old Get. This is a free country, Fink, and every man 
has a right to his opinion. Its your right as a free citizen 
to think what you please about my veracity — I aint gain- 
sain' that. But do n't be a fool, Fink. 

Fink. I wasn't branded cast-steel for that, so don't 
feel oneasy touchin' my foolishness. But pole on, pole 
on, partner. 

Old Get. Ef she didn't untie the renegade how did 
he get loose, and how did he know about her boat and its 
oars, eh ? Answer me them questions, Mr. Solomon. 

Fink. Well, I must say there 's snags about and a few 
eddies; but there 's one thing I can say to them regulators 
— they 'd better time their visit here after our Red Run 
expedition gets off. Ef they don't they run on a few 
snags that are tiptop sawyers, I can tell you. 

Old Get. I 'm with you there, Fink ; but, its long be- 
tween drinks, partner. Let's adjourn to the broad horn 
and try that corn-juice. 

Fink. Agreed. (Exeunt.} 

Enter Mrs. Blennerhassett. 

Mrs. Blen. Now, please do n't fail me, boy ; if my — 
this man I mean — were to die without giving me a clue I 



332 Blennerhassett' s Island. 

would be doomed to a life of torture. {In taking note 
Barbara drops it.) 

Barb. Trust me, madam. 

Mrs. Blen. I do. May heaven serve you as you 
serve a wretched mother ! {Exit.) 

Barb. Poor woman. What helpless playthings we 
are in the hands of men, and how we pay with broken 
hearts for their amusement. There is one, at least, I 
doom to death. Those papers — could I but gain that 
proof, the task were easy. {Exit.) 

Enter Blennerhassett. - 

Blen. A strange depression weighs me down. This 
hazy sun of autumn, with the gorgeous drapery of the 
dying woods I have so loved, seems to me the sunlight of 
a cemetery. I can not understand this sudden intimacy 
with Colonel Burr. Last night my more than wife awoke 
me by her weeping. She wearies of this solitude. Can 
it be this fascinating villian, this man whose oily tongue 
and polished ways win hearts in spite of reason, has come 
between us? The thought is madness, and yet why not? 
She left her husband, child, and home for me ; why may 
she not in turn follow him? {Picks up note mechanically.) 
This were punishment I could not bear — What is this ? 
{reads) "My heart is full of agonized suspense. You 
have aroused a love I thought dead. You promise to re- 
turn my child. God bless you for the hope, and heaven 



Blennerhasseit's Island. 333 

reward you. Such deed will wipe away your sins — yea, 
cleanse your hands of blood. Only grant me what you 
promise and I will give you all that is left of my wretched 
life." I see it all! This devil in human shape I have ad- 
mitted to my house and home has won her through her 
mother love and seeks to have me embark in his wild 
schemes that he may have her by his side. 
Enter Barbara. 

Barb. {Aside.) I have lost the note. (Sees Blen- 
nerhassett.) Ah! sir, you seem disturbed. (Blenner- 
hassett stares at her.) Are you ill ? 

Blen. Aye, ill — ill — sick at heart ! But what is that 
to you; go from me; why do you look upon me so 
strangely? Is my disease written upon my face — go, I 
say! Hold! Perhaps you know. In cases of this sort it 
is common for all to know the rot before the sufferer feels 
his wrong. Do you know what tortures me ? 

Barb. I believe I do. 

Blen. Well, answer — what is it? Do n't stand there 
with that look of pity on your face. Out with it, boy, or 
I shall choke it from you! {Seizing her.) 

Barb. The disease from which you suffer is known to 
the world as Aaron Burr. 

Blen. So I thought! Known is it — known to the 
world — and all these camp followers and ruffians have 
seen what I have not even suspected; and so my name 



334 B tenner has sett's Island. 

and trouble are tossed about camp-fires by vulgar lips for 
laughter and contempt, or worse than both, their pity. 

Barb. There is no need thus to torture yourself by 
such exaggeration. But it does seem strange to me that a 
man wise as you should admit to your home a man against 
whom every door is closed, and upon whose Cain-marked 
brow the finger of public scorn is fixed. 

Blen. True — most true. 

Barb. What is there sacred that he respects, what law 
of God has he not violated ? Brave as a soldier, brilliant 
as a statesman — so fascinating that he wins by looks where 
eloquence fails other men — his treachery has undone him ! 
He is doomed. 

Blen. Yes, yes ; I fell a victim to his wiles. But now, 
while stealing from me all my heart holds dear, he trusts 
his honor and his life into my keeping. See, I hold here 
papers that, if given to the government, would doom him 
to a felon's death for treason — high treason. 

Barb. And you keep faith with a man like this? 
Give me the papers; this officer is waiting here for proof ; 
with these in hand your enemy, the country's foe, will be 
carried back in irons to die upon the scaffold. 

Blen. Take them my boy. Such vengeance brings no 
relief to me, but it is well that he should die. 

Barb. (Aside.) I have won. (Seizing the papers.) 



Blennerhassett s Island. 



335 



Rest assured sir, more than one broken heart will rejoice 
over this man's fall. {Exit.) 

(Blennerhassett seats himself and buries his face in his 
hands. Mrs. Blennerhassett approaches him and places 
her hand upon his shoulder.) 

Mrs. Blen. My love, I have a hideous secret to reveal 
to you. 

Blen. {Without looking up .) So soon returned ! You 
should have continued on and saved the telling of what I 
know — I know too well. 

Mrs. Blen. Colonel Burr was met at the landing by a 
messenger with news that brought us back. I have re- 
solved to confess to you a strange experience that has 
come to us. 

Blen. Save yourself the shame of telling. I know it 
all without — (Starting up.) I was slow to learn, the very 
last to learn the shame the entire camp and country bab- 
bles of. 

Mrs. Blen. Do not blame me, love. I sought to hide 
from you the misery of this event. I can not kill a 
mother's love ; there is no hour of the weary day I do not 
see her little form — look in her gentle face, and when night 
comes I hear in sleep the patter of her tiny feet — the 
music of her voice, the pressure on my bosom of her 
gentle touch, and I awake to weep in utter wretchedness. 
Oh ! Harman, he promises to restore my child — to give 



336 Bletinerhassett 's Is/and. 

her to these loving arms I stretch in vain to gather vacancy 
that holds but woe. 

Bleu. He promises ! he is a treacherous villian — Why 
promises are cheap ! He sought by promises such as these 
to win you from me. Thank God, I hold the scoundrel 
by the throat and a shameful death I promise him. 

Mrs. Blen. You do mistake most strangely ; he never 
sought to win my love nor I to give it him. 

Blen. Hold '. Add not to crime by lies. Is that your 
writing? {Showing note.) 

Mrs. Blen. (Faintly.) Yes. 

Blen. You pen such words to him — to this wretch 
whose life has been an infamy— and I abandoned home, 
friends, fortune and a future to bury like a fool my love 
and self in a wilderness for such a thing as this ! 

Mrs. Blen. I gave you all I had to give. And were 
I less a mother could you love me more ? 

Blen. And this love was to be bandied about, from 
one to another. It began with me and will end with the 
common herd. Paugh ! It makes me sick. 

Mrs. Blen. These are bitter words. Oh, Harman, 
hear me, be patient with me ! 

Blen. Patience ! Great Heavens, and would you have 
me patient with my own dishonor — pander to my own dis- 
grace ! What sort of woman is this that before God I made 
my wife — into whose keeping I have placed my all in life ! 



Ble?iner has sett's Island. 337 

Mrs. Blen. Alas, you will not listen. Oh, my love— 
{placing her hand upon his arm.) 

Blen. {Throwing her off.) Off, you strumpet ! How 
dare you touch me with your polluted hand ! Go join 
your new found love; he waits you now. Go— go to 
him, and by the great Creator I will put the rope around 
his worthless neck and you shall see him hanged. 

{She exits slowly, shrinking from htm; he rushes back, 
sinks into a seat and buries his face in his hands. E?iter 
Barbara.) 

Barb. This officer when wanted most is absent from 
his post. 1 have left orders at his camp for a file of men 
to arrest this traitor. 

Blen. {Rising suddenly.) I find no comfort here. He 
shall die by my own hand. 

Juirb. Better leave that to the hangman. The rope 
is woven and the scaffold built for the traitor Burr. Leave 
the law he has offended to do your work. 

Blen. Too slow, too slow and all uncertain. I'll arm my- 
self and shoot him where he stands. I '11 send his treacher- 
ous soul to hell before his faction shall have time to rescue. 

Barb. But sir — 

Blen. Out of my way you spy! {Throwing Barbara 
aside and rushing into the house.) 

Barb. The man is crazed. Well, be it so j my enemy 
is punished either way. 
29 



338 BlennerhasseW s Island. 

Enter Burr. 

Burr. Barbara (she starts), you do this masquerading 
remarkably well. 

Barb. You know me, then ! 

Burr. My heart were dead indeed did I not see 
you through this thin disguise. You may stain the snowy 
skin and hide the roses, cut off with cruel shears your 
silken locks, put on a boy's attire, yet leave enough for 
me to know the sweetest woman heaven ever fashioned to 
fascinate a man. 

Barb. Enough of that! I have learned to value 
these soft speeches at their real value. 

Burr. And did you suppose, my girl, that you could 
change the winning sweetness of that voice, your grace of 
motion and those sparkling eyes because this vulgar dema- 
gogue — this French philosopher, Tom Jefferson, bids you 
try? 

Barb. I have enough to suit my purpose. See (show- 
ing package of papers), I hold your life, you traitor to God, 
your government and me. I put the rope around your 
treacherous neck and send you swinging down to infamy. 

Burr. Are those my love letters that you brandish so 
triumphantly ? 

Barb. No ! I burned the worthless things when I 
ground your worthless love beneath my feet. 






Blennerhassett 's Island. 339 

Burr. What, then, are those very official-looking doc- 
uments? 

Barb. The papers you entrusted to your host, the 
wealthy owner of this town and isle ; all your traitorous 
plans, your secret correspondence with despots abroad 
who seek, through you, to break the Union and destroy 
the government. 

Burr. And is an Irishman's honor then so frail a thing 
as woman's love ? Well, give me my property. {Seizing 
her arm). 

Barb. Not so, my love. You are desperate I see. 
But one cry from me, and the guard will be upon you, 
and you arrested with all the proof upon your person. 

Burr. {Releasing her.) But you will not cry. 

Barb, Unless you force me. 

Burr. And you will restore my property. 

Barb. Not so long as I have eating at my heart the 
wrong you did me. 

Burr. I accept the terms. What is the wrong that 
thus has changed your trusting love to hate ? 

Barb. Must I repeat what you have known so well? 
Did you not woo and win me from my quiet humble home, 
from innocence and peace ? 

Burr. Most true. It is the sweetest memory of my 
life ! Through all my troubled years that joy rides on like 
some bright star above the clouds of night. 



340 Blennerhassett* s Island. 

Barb. And then to cast me from you like a worthless 
thing to die of my own despair! 

Burr. That is a lie. Pardon my rough words, but I 
am the one wronged, the one to complain. 

Barb. You? You? Come now, this is audacity with- 
out parallel. What a fool you think me to treat me thus ! 

Burr. Your conduct certainly warrants such belief. 
Listen, Barbara. When first we met you were but a school 
girl, and I a man who had knocked about the world until 
wearied with its dreary sameness. I saw you to love as I 
never thought to love again. It was not only your rare 
beauty but your quaint originality and force of character 
that made you, not a man's plaything, but his equal to 
soothe, comfort, and sustain. 

Barb. And you wearied of all these charms so soon! 

Burr. You provoke me. This weakness is unworthy 
of you, my love. You measure my love with a pack 
thread. After that fatal duel in which I killed mine 
enemy and the world killed me, I turned to you as my 
only solace, my only hope. 

Barb. It is such a pity you kept all this hid in your 
own heart, not even deigning to answer my poor letters. 

Burr. I never received them. I have been sur- 
rounded a hundred deep by spies, to which you, my love, 
have added your sweet self to work my ruin. My letters 
were intercepted and destroyed. 



Blennerhassett 's Island. 341 

Barb. Ah ! If I could believe all this. 

Burr. Your inner heart believes it. Your better in- 
stincts guide you to the truth. Why, Barbara, do you 
know why I shot that man with the sunlight blazing on his 
face? 

Barb. For a political difference that he made per- 
sonal. 

Burr. Not at all. 'T is true, the world puts me at 
fault, finding no cause for my deadly malice. It was be- 
cause he coupled your dear name with mine for scorn and 
laughter among his drunken comrades. 

Barb. Can this be true ? 

Burr. True ! I would it were not true. Before I 
killed that man I had the world before me; a past that 
made me loved, and troops of friends to insure me a 
brilliant future. After the howling mob of Puritans, 
headed by this demagogue, whose cunning passes for 
genius, succeeded in closing against me my field of old 
success and drove me to try a new, I accepted the 
tempting offers of monarchs abroad to build an empire on 
a portion of this frail republic. And do you know, Bar- 
bara, the hope that held me to this desperate work— the 
one bright star that shone along my troubled sea, my guide 
to empire? 

Barb. How can I know, not knowing you? 

Burr. So it seems. Well, I put my life, my name, 



34 2 BlennerhassetV s Island. 

my fortune on the hazard of this scheme, not only that I 
might fulfill my destiny but sweeten it with your com- 
panionship ; I would place a crown upon that lovely head 
and have your love to live upon and your rare intellect to 
aid me in my public cares and lift a burden from my 
dreary life. 

Barb. Ah me, I ought not to listen, — I know — I 
know your words are false. I have that within that warns 
me of your treachery, and yet I must submit ! I love you 
still. There, take the proofs and count me out, too small 
a thing for you to keep me even in your memory. 

Burr. No, keep the papers, Barbara. They are safer 
in your hands than mine. And stay with me for I need 
your clear brain as much as I need your love. Hold ! you 
can do me a service, a great service. His Excellency has 
ordered my arrest. He proclaims me traitor and calls on 
all good citizens to give no aid to my endeavors. Give 
me those papers; take these, carry them to the President 
and say you risked your life in getting them. And if His 
Excellency can spare time from the embraces of his sad- 
dle-tinted love he will read therein that I only mean to 
settle lands I purchased in Louisiana, and so be put at 
fault. I need time; this will fetch delay. 

Barb. Be assured I will — and Oh ! my love, let this 
one service plead in my behalf! 

Burr. No need of pleading, dearest. You hold my 



BlennerJiassett 's Island. 343 

future, my heart and hope within the hollow of your little 
hand. Soon return. 

Barb. Where shall I find you ? 

Burr. In Mexico, my love. The halls of Montezuma 
shall know a king once more. Au revoir till then. {Exit 
Barbara.) Go your ways, you little fool! By the Lord, 
though, she came near to proving my ruin. Here comes 
this padded chicken cock with a nation's care upon his 
military front and a file of men behind. 

Enter Captain Wilkinson and troops followed by Fink, 
Old Get and others. 

Sergeant. Halt ! 

Captain. Colonel Burr, it is my painful duty to arrest 
you. 

Burr. By what authority, sir? 

Captain. By that of the President and Secretary of War. 

Burr. Pardon me, Captain ; I must have a warrant 
from court of proper jurisdiction. There has been no 
proclamation establishing martial law. 

Captain. I take the responsibility. Seize him, Sergeant. 

Sergeant. Take this man in custody. {Soldiers do not 
move.) Do you hear me — seize this man! 

First Soldier. We wont obey; we go with Burr. — 
{Cries of "Burr" — "Burr" — the crowd cheers.) 

Captain. Why this is mutiny ! 

Burr. It certainly resembles something of the sort. 



344 Blennerhassett's Island. 

Captain. Doubtless of your cunning. 

Burr. Captain, give me your sword — do n't hesitate, 
it is your only safety. {Captain gives sword.) Comrades, I 
am Aaron Burr, a soldier late of the Federal army. I 
thank you for the honesty that makes you refuse to execute 
an illegal order, and I thank you for the impulse that bids 
you seek to follow my fortunes; but, comrades, in the 
hazardous expedition I have on hand I need men, not 
deserters. Were I to accept your offer I would justify the 
government in arresting us. You are gallant soldiers en- 
listed on your honor and must return to duty. Fall in. 
By the right flank, forward march ! Sergeant, march them 
to camp. Captain, having restored to you your company, 
I have the honor to restore to you your sword. 

Curtain. 



ACT IV. 

Scene: Same as in former acts. Fink and Mahala. 

Mahala. What 's up, Mike ? 

Mike. My back 's up for one thing. 

Mahala. Like a torn cat. Back rounded, claws and 
teeth out, and tail bigger nor its head. What riles you, 
Fink? 

Fink. Those damned fool regulators. They hadn't 
the pluck to hunt down and capture the devil, Wolf; but 



Blennerhassett 's Island. 345 

now that he is gone they are ragin' like catamounts and 
are gettin' a force to clean us out, they say, because the 
lady let him escape. I say what 's become of the lady ? 

Mahala. Well, Fink, there you 've got me. She dis- 
appeared all of a suddint, no one knows where, and the 
boss has been goin' on like mad. He walked and walked 
his room all last night, muttering to himself like one 
possessed. 

Fink. The troops are gettin' off, bound for New 
Orleans. I wished the roosters 'd stay a little longer. 

Mahala. Why, I thought you wanted 'em gone. 

Fink. Yes, when they was talkin' of 'restin' our 
Colonel Burr. But that's over now. The Captain give 
it up like a sensible fellow — and then I did n't like the way 
they had of walkin' round you like crows round a sick 
lamb. But now that the regulators are a' gettin' up mis- 
chief, I would n't mind havin' the roosters take a hand in 
the scrimmage. 

Mahala. The regulators will be down on us the 
moment the soldiers go. 

Fink. Shouldn't wonder — cuss 'em. I say, Mahala, 
my may apple, my dog-wood blossom, when'er you and me 
goin' to tie to — eh ? 

Mahala. When you give up boatin' and settle down to 
an honest life. 

Fink. Now, puss, do n't say that. I tell you, my red- 



346 - Blennerhassett 's Island. 

bird of the wilderness, there 's more hard dollars in a 
broad horn than in forty quarter sections. 

Mahala. Yes^ and a sweetheart in every town you tie 
up at. No, Mr. Fink, I do n't want part of a husband, I 
want all or none. 

Fink. Well, you 've got me fore and aft — I am all 
your 'n ; let me grapple. 

Enter Old Get. 

Old Get. Throw off thar — throw off, I 'm a comin' ! 
{Pushing iii between them.) Give the old man a chance. 

Mahala. Go away, you scare-crow, you string-haltered, 
spavined old creeter' ! 

Old Get. Oh ! You hollyhock of the garden patch — 
Jehosiphat, aint she handsome ! Amputate my off limb, 
I wants to hug ye 'r. 

Fink. Pole off, pole off thar ! That aint a saplin' for 
you to tie to. I 've secured that cargo. 

Old Get. Do n't ye be deluded, young gal, by his in- 
sinuatin' ways. He's got a wife and family this minute 
jist a weepin' for him, the ornery cuss ! 

Fink. See here, old man, keep your lies for your 
own use. You 're breedin' a protuberance on that nose of 
your'n. 

Old Get. Come on — come on, young Arabian ! Hail 
Columby ! Who 's afeard ? As for this little gal, I warn 
her agin boatmen. (Sings.) 



Blennerhassett 's Island. 347 

The boatman come, he blow his hawn, 
Look out old man, jer shote am gone. 
{Chorus all.) 

Oh! ho! boatman row, 
We 're floatin' on the waters of the O-hi-o. 

Fink. Where have you bin, anyhow ? 

Old Gel. A bar huntin', and I tell you I made a mity 
narrow escape with my life. 

Fink. Put your fascinatin' eye on him, May. Here 
comes a lie. 

Old Get. Well, ye see I'd been explorin' the woods 
with one eye out fur Indians and tother out for bars, and 
had n't seen either, when I leaned up agin a big oak to 
rest, and while I was a restin' I heard a scratchin' and 
whinin' noise inside. Them's coons, possums, or young 
bars, says I. I sot down my rifle, husked my wamus, and 
went up that thar tree like a squirrel. About twenty feet 
up I found the trunk broke off and the tree holler. 
Without thinkin' what I was doing I jist slipped down, and 
way at the butt I found them little bars. I had them cubs 
in no time and slung 'em over my shoulder, and concluded 
to climb back, when, bless your soul, I found I could n't. 
The inside wus soft and slippy. Every foot I climbed up 
I fell back two. I knowed I could eat them little bars 
and I could drink all the wiskey in my flask, and then 
old Get could jest peg out. 



348 Blennerhas sett's Island. 

Fink. Did you repent of all the lies you 've told ? 

Mahala. And all the chicken you stole? 

Old Get. Well, for a real truth tellin', honest Christian 
man, I was n't so much alarmed about the hereafter as the 
here. But I jist felt in my bones that the Lord was n't 
goin' to leave me to perish, and sure enough at that minit 
I heard a noise of growlin' and scratchin' on the outside 
and I knew the old she bar was a comin'. Then, Oh, 
Lord ! says I, it is goin' to be a bar fight of magnitude, 
and I drawed my knife. Then the hole above was 
darkened and down she comes rump foremost. An idea 
struck me. When she got in reach I jist seized her by the 
tail and stuck my knife in her hind quarters, and the way 
that bar scratched, growled and kicked me out of that hole 
was a caution. I caught on the rim as she went over the 
top and I gave a yell as she tumbled and went a canterin' 
into the brush a twistin' her old rump as if she felt ridicalus. 

Fink. Oh, get out ! 

Old Get. Fact, Fink. 

Fink. You 'r a failin', old man; I heerd that bar story 
when I wus knee high to a duck on the Monongahela. 

Old Get. Young man, ef you begin a lyin' that ar way, 
the devil '11 catch you afore you are gray. Let the choir 
sing. 

Mahala. Well, I 've got my work to do and can't stay 
here a hearin' you fellows swap lies. 



BlennerhasseW s Island. 349 

Fink. Farewell, my dog-wood blossom. 

Old Get. Goodby, little hollyhock. {Exit Mahala.) 
Enter Colonel Burr. 

Burr. Fink, you must select about ten trusty men to 
cross the river yonder and follow a trail you find up the 
hollow, till you reach a camp, where you '11 find a wounded 
man and a woman; surround and capture without kill- 
ing and fetch them here. Mind, you are to hurt no one. 
Make a litter and bring in the wounded man. 

Fink. All right, Colonel, we '11 be on the trail in half 
an hour. (Exeunt Fink and Old Get.) 

Burr. Now for a settlement with this mad fool who 
betrayed my trust. (Enter from the house Blennerhassett 
with two dueling pistols in his hand.') He comes, pale and 
insane with wrath. 

Blen. Aaron Burr, I thought to shoot you on sight, 
with no more warning of my deadly intent than you gave 
me of your treachery. But my own life is not of so much 
value to me that I care to save it and if in my seeking 
your life you take mine, it will be peace to me and a fit- 
ting end to your hellish conduct. 

Burr. I never refuse a satisfaction of the sort you ask, 
whether the demand is well founded or not. Before we 
proceed to that honor I wish to say a word. 

Blen. I warn you, Aaron Burr, that my patience is 
exhausted. There is naught that you can say to change 



350 Bleniwhas sett's Island. 

my purpose, and your attempt will only drive me mad. 
Take your choice. {Offering pistols .) 

Burr. Excuse me. I am well aware that a man who 
could so betray my confidence is quite capable of assassin- 
ation. It is I who should demand satisfaction. 

Blen. Treachery for treachery. What law of honor 
bound me to one who stole into my household to rob it of 
peace and honor ? Take your choice, sir. 

Burr. The word honor, my friend, had better be 
dropped between us. All the honor sheltered by your 
roof is scarcely worth our breath. 

Blen. What do you mean ! What do you mean, you 
scoundrel ? 

Burr. I mean that a man who makes his roof the 
shelter for his neighbor's wife leaves honor at the thresh- 
hold. 

Blen. She was my wife to you as she was before God. 
This, then, is your excuse — this is to palliate your crime ? 
God give me patience ! I shall throttle him — tear his 
lying tongue from his throat. Aaron Burr, will you do as 
I bid? 

Burr. Certainly; but I will say that I have no crime 
to palliate. 

Blen. You did not steal into my house as a friend and 
win that woman from me as a devil ? 

Burr. Certainly not. 






Blennerhassett \s Island. 351 

Blen. You have not hid her in your camp ? 

Burr. Certainly not. 

Blen. You lie — you lie ! I speak of what I know. 
Will you take your weapon and your place, or shall I 
shoot you like a dog ? 

Burr. Be patient, Harman Blennerhassett. You shall 
have all that you demand and probably more than you 
expect. I do not skrink from putting one more fool out 
of the world. 

Blen. You think to kill me ? 

Burr. Most assuredly. In sixty seconds by my watch 
(taking it out) I will end this controversy between us for- 
ever. Now, let me tell you, sir, before you die that you 
merit your doom. I am the man aggrieved. I trusted my 
honor, my life, my all to your keeping as a gentleman, 
and you repaid that trust by betraying me to mine 
enemies. 

Blen. Hold trust with a scoundrel who treacherously 
took advantage of my hospitality to do me a most foul 
wrong ? 

Burr. It was your duty as a gentleman to call me to 
account. After you were certain of your facts you could 
have punished me as your vengeance dictated. Time is 
up, Mr. Blennerhassett. Give me either weapon. I 
suppose both are loaded. Now, take your stand by yon- 
der bush. That will give us the proper distance. 



352 Blennei'hassetV s Island. 

Blen. I want no such space — I want it arm's length, 
face to face, and muzzle at breast. 

Burr. Mr. Blennerhassett, I am a gentleman and not 
an assassin. Either we fight like men, or you may carry 
out your first intent and shoot me where I stand. 

Blen. Fight me here. Who is to measure distance ? 
Give the word. All this is a mockery under which you 
hope to escape to your love. 

Burr. Enough, sir; you are wasting breath in talk 
that lately you protested. Take your place, sir, or shoot 
me. I want this ended. 

Blen. And I. (Starting.) 

Burr. One word — fire when you reach your place as 
it suits you, as I count three. But mind, the one who 
misses forfeits his life, and the winner has the right to 
shorten distance till his aim is death. 

Blen. I understand. (Takes his place.) 

Burr. One, two, three. (Blennerhassett fires.) 
And now, before I end this wretched business, will you 
please explain why you charge me with seducing this 
woman from you? 

Blen. Her own writing — read. (Gives note.) 

Burr. (Reads.) There is no address. 

Blen. None was needed. 

Burr. Yes, for this was not addressed to me. 

Blen. Who else? 



BlennerhasseW s Island. 353 

Burr. Wolf, the renegade. 

Blen. Wolf, the renegade ! 

Burr. None other. Learn, sir, what you might 
have known had you retained your senses. The beast 
whose wife you stole followed you here to murder you 
both. For some unknown reason he surrendered himself, 
had his life spared by your wife, and in return promised 
to restore her their child. On this promise she favored 
his escape. On this account she attempted a correspond- 
ence, for the man while escaping was terribly wounded — 

Blcn. Great heavens, can this be true? 

Burr. This letter found where she embarked last 
night may tell you more. (Takes from his pocket a letter.) 

Blen. (Opens and reads.) "Before I cross this river 
to die in the wilderness beyond — for you have driven me 
into these wilds with no place wherein to find a shelter or 
a friend — I beg of you, as my last prayer, to take up the 
search I shall have to abandon and find my poor lost little 
one. It was from my great love of her that I listened to 
Victor and aided him to escape. I had no thought, Oh, 
my love, that this would have so offended you, and yet I 
feared to tell you. I can say no more. Oh! my love, 
my love, I gave up home, heaven, and my own child for 
you, and now in sight of a cruel death I swear that to you 
I have been true in thought, word, and deed." — My God! 
What have I done ? I have driven her forth to perish in 
30 



354 



BlennerhasseW s Island. 



the wide wilderness. She is dead, and I her murderer ! 
Sir, you were right to kill me — in mercy now put me out 
of my misery. 

Burr. Come, come, man, it is not so bad as that. I 
have sent some trusty fellows on the trail, and if naught 
goes amiss this fair woman will yet be saved. 
(Enter Messenger.) 

Messenger. Letters for Colonel Burr. 

(Burr opens hastily and reads :) 

''Your boats have been seized at Pittsburgh and an 
officer with troops is on his way with orders to seize and 
carry you in irons to Washington." 

Burr. So the French Virginian springs his trap before 
the prey is in the net. It is unlucky, though. A few 
more days and I were far beyond his reach. 

{Shouts and firing heard. Enter Old Get.) 

Old Get. The regulators is on us ! 

Burr. The troops are gone, and I have sent away the 
best of our men. (To Blennerhassett, who sits with his 
face in his hands.) Rouse up, man ; your people are 
being killed, your home will be destroyed. 

Blen. It is not worth the saving. Let me die amid 
its ruin. 

(Boatmen and soldiers hurry in armed.) 

Burr. Rally here, my men ! cut loose the boats ! (A 
glare of light, showing the house to be on fire, flashes up.) 



BlennerhassetV s Island. 



355 



What ! so soon ? The rogues are quick and sudden in 
their attack. Fall back upon the camp — steady — steady 
men. 

Curtain. 



ACT V. 

Scene: As in previous acts. The house in ruins, trees leaf- 
less and snow falling. Old Get and Mahala. 

Old Get. Winter's come as suddint as the regulators 
and jist about as onpleasant. 

Mahala. Ef it had n't been for the Colonel's boat 
we'd a froze to death. 

Old Get. Ef it had n't been for that same Kunnel we 
would n't a 'lived to be froze. Jehosiphat ! but he did 
make his fellers fight. The little handful was as firm 
under him as a rock, and fierce as tigers. We made them 
regulators take to water — git up and git, although about 
ten times our number. I tell ye, gal, there 's nothin' like 
havin' a gineral in a scrimmage. The boss hisself wasn't 
worth a continental cuss. 

Mahala. What ailed him ? 

Old Get. Lord only knows. He seemed all of a daze. 
The men had to pull him out of the fight. He jist looked 
and acted like a dumb beast in a blaze. Did you see me 



356 Blenner has sett ' s Island. 

fight, little gal? Ef it hadn't been for me and the Kun- 
nel wher 'd you bin, eh ? 

Mahala. I got sight of you onct behind a tree. 

Old Get. And did n't I stand firm ? 

Mahala. Agin that tree— yes; you was a huggin' that 
tree as if it had been your sweetheart. 

Old Get. That was high old strategy, ye see. It was 
my pint of observation to command knowingly. Ye see, 
that was jist whar I saw how to turn their flank and pepper 
'em in their rear. Me an' Kunnel Burr got 'em bad 
behind, and that's what scared 'em worst. As we was 
light handed I never leveled old Betsy 'till I could take 
from three to five in a row. Why, fellers died here by 
dozens jist a wonderin' what ailed 'em. Men, I '11 venture, 
went home to their families, took their suppers and did n't 
know 'till they poled for bed that they was mortally 
wounded. When I was in Gettisburg — (Mahala steals off 
unnoticed by Old Get.) — the British came down on us all 
of a suddint and began firing bombs into us. I was a 
mere boy then, but what does T do but pick up them 
bombs afore they could explode and throw 'em back. I'd 
a killed off the hull army but for an unfortunate bomb that 
exploded right in my commissary. It knocked me into 
the middle of next week, and when I come 'round they 
was a buryin' me with the honors of war. I tell ye, gal, — 



Blennerhassett 's Island. 357 

Hello, the specimen female has disappeared ! Well, 
women has no 'preciation for good men at any time. 
{Enter Burr, meeting Old Get. as the last exits.) 

Evening to you, Kunnel — bad weather, Kunnel. 

Burr. A rough day, comrade. My life is in its wane. 
Success no longer waits upon my will. There was a time 
when fortune smiled and fate seemed at my bidding. 
Then, fair women and brave men loved and feared me. 
But since that fatal moment, when with cool deliberate aim 
I sent the leaden messenger of death to smite mine enemy, 
all seems changed. What I seize upon fades to nothing- 
ness, and my cherished projects turn to ill. Women fear 
and men shun me. This fair isle I found a paradise, is 
turned in one short day to desolate nakedness. Its 
peaceful loving life went out in violence, and yet it was no 
deed of mine. All that I touch drops to swift decay. I 
dreamed to build an empire in the mighty West. The 
potent governments of earth gave me means. What could 
be fairer than my future ? And now my boats are seized, 
my men arrested, my seeming friends turned traitors, while 
armed emissaries hurry on to take me back in irons. 
Well, well, I look the invisible calmy in the face, and let 
the future be what it may, no man shall question 'me in 
doubt upon my courage or my power to hurt. I will ful- 
fill my destiny. The hand that gave the poison to the 
snake and to the cruel tiger its ravenous appetite gave 



35 8 Blennerhassett' s Island. 

man his impulse, be it good or ill, and I will do the evil 
I was born to do. When I die no monument built by lov- 
ing hands shall mark my narrow bed, but for ages after my 
epitaph shall be my name, and men will say a dangerous 
man — no one crossed his path and lived. (Enter Mike 
Fink.) Well, Fink, what success? 

Fink. I found the camp, Wolf wounded, an old 
medicine man making him worse, and Mrs. Blennerhassett 
nursing him. 

Burr. Is he much hurt ? 

Fink. Could n't be much worse and live. 

Burr. You brought him in ? 

Fink. Aye, aye, sir ; we obeyed orders ; made a litter 
for the wounded man and toted him down ; madam treats 
him as she would a child, tho' its my opinion he will be in 
hell afore he reaches here. They're comin'. 
Enter number of men carrying Wolf, followed by Mrs. Blen- 
nerhassett, and at a distance Blennerhassett. 

Burr. How fares it with you, man ? 

Wolf. I think this little trip has about finished the 
work. 

Mrs. Blen. Oh, Colonel, can not aid be obtained? 
Have you not a surgeon with your men ? 

Wolf. (Lifting himself up.) All the surgeons in the 
world could not give me an hour's life. Where is Blen- 
nerhassett ? I want a word with him before I die. 



Blennerhas sett's Island. 359 

Blen. I am here. 

Wolf. You sought my wife ; I leave you my widow. 
Do not start, man — it is all right. You saved her from a 
brute. 

Blen. I never knew the wrong I did till now. 

Wolf. The knowledge comes a little late. Better 
late than never. That is all bosh. You can now repay 
the wrong, if any wrong you did. I made her wretched. 
It was the husband's right. You made her happy; it was 
the lover's right. 

Mrs. Blen. Oh, Victor, do not speak thus ! You will 
yet live ; we will nurse you back to life — we will have a 
surgeon — you are only exhausted by this moving. 

Wolf. A priest were better than a doctor now. I 
make you all my confessor. I have sinned to the best of 
my ability. There is no crime I have not committed save 
what a gentleman can not do. I have not forged to ob- 
tain your property, but by the slow torture of abuse I 
have made your life more terrible than death, and now, in 
expiation I give my life to you and not against my will. 
I beg you to observe I have lived a gentleman and die a 
man. 

Mrs. Blen. Do not think of dying, Victor! We will 
save you yet. 

Wolf. It is not what I think but feel. I am dead in 
all save speech. A priest who could absolve us all were 



360 Blennerhasseit 's Island. 

best. The dying sinner he could confess and the living 
sinners he might absolve by marriage. Give me your 
hand, wife — my left — the right is in its grave. I have 
been a poor devil, though a gentleman ; I made your ex- 
istence a misery ; try to forgive if you can not forget. 

Mrs. Blen. Can you forgive? 

Wolf. With all my heart. Small difference. Here, 
Harman, take the blessed of the wicked. The chill 
reaches my heart, and night is gathering on my eyes — you 
will find the child— ah ! (Falls bach dead.) 

Burr. With him the world is ended. 

Blen. Carry him to the garden. We will make his 
grave amid its ruins, and his requiem shall be these wintry 
winds and the murmur of the river's waves as they sweep 
by his lonely tomb. {They carry off Wolf.) 

Burr. And now, my friends, what will you do with 
yourselves ? 

Blen. Drop down the river till we reach New Orleans, 
then sail for Europe. Will you not fly with us? 

Burr. Fly? My name is Aaron Burr — I go to face 
mine enemies, demand their proof, and defy their malice. 

Curtain. 



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